THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 


"'Oh,  what  a  pity,'  said  Betty  from  the  heart,  'that  we  aren't 
introduced  now!'' 


Incomplete  Amorist 


By 

E.    NESBIT 

Author   tf  "The   Red   Home," 
"Tht  Wouldbtgoods"    ttc.y  ttt. 


Illustrated  by 
CLARENCE  F.  UNDERWOOD 


NEW  YORK 

Doubleday,  Page   &  Company 
1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by 
The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1906,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  June,  1906 


All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  ihv  Scandinavian. 


RICHARD  REYNOLDS 

and 
JUSTUS  MILES  FORMAN 


2137434 


•'Faire  naitre  tin  d£sir,  le  nourrir,  le  d£velopper, 
le  grandir,  le  satisfaire,  c'est  un  poeme  tout  entier." 

— Balzac. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I.     THE  GIRL 

Chapter 

I.     The  Inevitable 

Chapter 

II.     The  Irresistible 

Chapter 

III.     Voluntary 

Chapter 

IV.     Involuntary    . 

Chapter 

V.     The  Prisoner  . 

Chapter 

VI.     The  Criminal 

Chapter 

VII.     The  Escape     . 

BOOK  II.     THE  MAN 

Chapter 

VIII.     The  One  and  the  Other 

Chapter 

IX.     The  Opportunity    . 

Chapter 

X.     Seeing  Life 

Chapter 

XI.     The  Thought  .         .      -  . 

Chapter 

XII.     The  Rescue     . 

Chapter 

XIII.     Contrasts 

Chapter 

XIV.     Renunciation 

BOOK  III.     THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

Chapter 

XV.     On  Mount  Parnassus 

Chapter 

XVI.     "Love  and  Tupper" 

Chapter 

XVII.     Interventions 

Chapter 

XVIII.     The  Truth      . 

Chapter 

XIX.     The  Truth  with  a  Vengeance 

Chapter          XX.     Waking-up  Time     . 


3 

18 
29 
40 
53 
63 
75 


93 

107 

121 
133 
MS 
159 
172 


I87 
2OI 
22O 

233 
246 

257 


CONTENTS—  Continued 


Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 
Chapter 

BOOK 

XXL 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 

IV.     THE  OTHER  MAN 

The  Flight     * 
The  Lunatic  .         .        . 
Temperatures 
The  Confessional     . 
The  Forest      . 
The  Miracle    . 
The  Pink  Silk  Story 
"And  so—" 

PAGS 
271 

28l 

29O 
301 
3I2 
322 

335 

348 


PEOPLE  OF  THE  STORY 

Eustace  Vernon The  Incomplete  Amorist 

Betty  Desmond The  Girl 

The  Rev.  Cecil  Underwood Her  Step-Father 

Miss  Julia  Desmond Her  Aunt 

Robert  Temple The  Other  Man 

Lady  St.  Craye The  Other  Woman 

Miss  Voscoe The  Art  Student 

Madame  Chevillon The  Inn-Keeper  at  Crez 

Paula  Conway A  Soul  in  Hell 

Mimi  Chantal A  Model 

Village  Matrons,  Concierges,  Art  Students,  Etc. 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  'Oh,  what  a  pity,'  said  Betty  from  the  heart, 

'that  we  aren't  introduced  now!'  "        .  Frontispiece 

(See Page  n) 

FACING   PAGB 

"  'Ah,  don't  be  cross!'  she  said."  .  .  .no 
"  Betty  stared  at  him  coldly."  .  .  .  .130 
"  Betty  looked  nervously  around — the  scene  was 

agitatingly  unfamiliar."  .  .  .  .154 
"Unfinished,  but  a  disquieting  likeness."  .  .  208 
"  '  No,  thank  you:  it's  all  done  now.'  "  .  .  222 
"  On  the  further  arm  of  the  chair  sat,  laughing 

also,  a  very  pretty  young  woman."  .  346 

"The  next  morning  brought  him  a  letter."  .  350 


XI. 


1, — tEfcr  «5irl 


THE    INCOMPLETE    AMORIST 

CHAPTER  I. 

t 

THE  INEVITABLE. 

"No.  The  chemises  aren't  cut  out.  I  haven't  had 
time.  There  are  enough  shirts  to  go  on  with,  aren't 
there,  Mrs.  James?"  said  Betty. 

"We  can  make  do  for  this  afternoon,  Miss,  but  the 
men  they're  getting  blowed  out  with  shirts.  It's  the 
children's  shifts  as  we  can't  make  shift  without  much 
longer."  Mrs.  James,  habitually  doleful,  punctuated 
her  speech  with  sniffs. 

"That's  a  joke,  Mrs.  James,"  said  Betty.  "How 
clever  you  are!" 

"I  try  to  be  what's  fitting,"  said  Mrs.  James,  com- 
placently. 

"Talk  of  fitting,"  said  Betty,  "If  you  like  I'll  fit  on 
that  black  bodice  for  you,  Mrs.  Symes.  If  the  other 
ladies  don't  mind  waiting  for  the  reading  a  little  bit." 

"I'd  as  lief  talk  as  read,  myself,"  said  a  red-faced 
sandy-haired  woman;  "books  ain't  what  they  was  in 
my  young  days." 

"If  it's  the  same  to  you,  Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Symes  in 
a  thick  rich  voice,  "I'll  not  be  tried  on  afore  a  room 
full.  If  we  are  poor  we  can  all  be  clean's  what  I  say, 
and  I  keeps  my  unders  as  I  keeps  my  outside.  But  not 

3 


4  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

before  persons  as  has  real  imitation  lace  on  their  pet- 
ticoat bodies.  I  see  them  when  I  was  a-nursmg  her 
with  her  fourth.  No,  Miss,  and  thanking  y  u  kindly, 
but  begging  your  pardon  all  the  same." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Betty  absently.  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Smith,  you  can't  have  lost  your  thimble  already.  Why 
what's  that  you've  got  in  your  mouth? 

"So  it  is!"  Mrs.  Smith's  face  beamed  at  the  grati- 
fying coincidence.  "It  always  was  my  habit,  from  a 
child,  to  put  things  there  for  safety.  ^ 

"These  cheap  thimbles  ain't  fit  to  put  in  your  mouth, 
no  more  than  coppers,"  said  Mrs.  James,  her  mouth 

'""(^'nothing  hurts  you  if  you  like  it,"  s aid  Betty 
recklessly.  She  had  been  reading  the  works  of  Mr. 
G.  K.  Chesterton. 

A  shocked  murmur  arose. 

"Oh  Miss,  what  about  the  publy  kows?  said  Mrs. 
Symes  heavily.  The  others  nodded  acquiescence. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  have  a  window  open.'' 
said  Betty     The  May  sunshine  beat  on  the  schoolroom 
windows.  '  The  room,  crowded  with  the  stout  members 
of  the  "Mother's  Meeting  and  Mutual  Clothing  Club, 
was  stuffy,  unbearable. 

A  murmur  arose  far  more  shocked  than  the  first. 

"I  was  just  a-goin'  to  say  why  not  close  the  door, 
that  being  what  doors  is  made  for,  after  all, .  said  Mrs. 
Symes.  "I  feel  a  sort  of  draught  a-creepmg  up  my 
legs  as  it  is." 

The  door  was  shut. 

"You  can't  be  too  careful,"  said  the  red-faced  wom- 
an-"we  never  know  what  a  chill  mayn't  bring  forth. 
My  cousin's  sister-in-law,  she  had  twins,  and  her 
aunt  come  in  and  says  she,  'You're  a  bit  stuffy  here, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  5 

ain't  you  ?'  and  with  that  she  opens  the  window  a  crack, 
— not  meaning  no  harm,  Miss, — as  it  might  be  you. 
And  within  a  year  that  poor  unfortunate  woman  she 
popped  off,  when  least  expected.  Gas  ulsters,  the  doc- 
tor said.  Which  it's  what  you  call  chills,  if  you're  a 
doctor  and  can't  speak  plain." 

"My  poor  grandmother  come  to  her  end  the  same 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "only  with  her  it  was  the  Bible 
reader  as  didn't  shut  the  door  through  being  so  set  on 
shewing  off  her  reading.  And  my  granny,  a  clot  of 
blood  went  to  her  brain,  and  her  brain  went  to  her 
head  and  she  was  a  corpse  inside  of  fifty  minutes." 

Every  woman  in  the  room  was  waiting,  feverishly 
alert,  for  the  pause  that  should  allow  her  to  begin  her 
own  detailed  narrative  of  disease. 

Mrs.  James  was  easily  first  in  the  competition. 

"Them  quick  deaths,"  she  said,  "is  sometimes  a 
blessing  in  disguise  to  both  parties  concerned.  My 
poor  husband — years  upon  years  he  lingered,  and  he 
had  a  bad  leg — talk  of  bad  legs,  I  wish  you  could  all 
have  seen  it,"  she  added  generously. 

"Was  it  the  kind  that  keeps  all  on  a-breaking  out?" 
asked  Mrs.  Symes  hastily,  "because  my  youngest 
brother  had  a  leg  that  nothing  couldn't  stop.  Break 
out  it  would  do  what  they  might.  I'm  sure  the  band- 
ages I've  took  off  him  in  a  morning — " 

Betty  clapped  her  hands. 

It  was  the  signal  that  the  reading  was  g*oing  to 
begin,  and  the  matrons  looked  at  her  resentfully. 
What  call  had  people  to  start  reading  when  the  talk 
was  flowing  so  free  and  pleasant? 

Betty,  rather  pale,  began :  "This  is  a  story  about  a 
little  boy  called  Wee  Willie  Winkie." 


6  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I  call  that  a  silly  sort  of  name,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Smith. 

"Did  he  make  a  good  end,  Miss?"  asked  Mrs.  James 
plaintively. 

"You'll  see,"  said  Betty. 

"I  like  it  best  when  they  dies  forgiving  of  everybody 
and  singing  hymns  to  the  last." 

"And  when  they  says,  'Mother,  I  shall  meet  you  'ere- 
after  in  the  better  land' — that's  what  makes  you  cry  so 
pleasant." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  read  or  not?"  asked  Betty  in 
desperation. 

"Yes,  Miss,  yes,"  hummed  the  voices  heavy  and 
shrill. 

"It's  her  hobby,  poor  young  thing,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Smith,  "we  all  'as  'em.  My  own  is  a  light  cake  to  my 
tea,  and  always  was.  Ush." 

Betty  read. 

When  the  mothers  had  wordily  gone,  she  threw  open 
the  windows,  propped  the  door  wide  with  a  chair,  and 
went  to  tea.  She  had  it  alone. 

"Your  Pa's  out  a-parishing,"  said  Letitia,  bumping 
down  the  tray  in  front  of  her. 

"That's  a  let-off  anyhow,"  said  Betty  to  herself,  and 
she  propped  up  a  Stevenson  against  the  tea-pot. 

After  tea  parishioners  strolled  up  by  ones  and  twos 
and  threes  to  change  their  books  at  the  Vicarage  lend- 
ing library.  The  books  were  covered  with  black  calico, 
and  smelt  of  rooms  whose  windows  were  never  opened. 

When  she  had  washed  the  smell  of  the  books  off,  she 
did  her  hair  very  carefully  in  a  new  way  that  seemed 
becoming,  and  went  down  to  supper. 

Her  step-father  only  spoke  once  during  the  meal ;  he 
was  luxuriating  in  the  thought  of  the  Summa  Thee- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  7 

logiae  of  Aquinas  in  leather  still  brown  and  beautiful, 
which  he  had  providentially  discovered  in  the  was'h- 
house  of  an  ailing  Parishioner.  When  he  did  speak  he 
said: 

"How  extremely  untidy  your  hair  is,  Lizzie.  I  wish 
you  would  take  more  pains  with  your  appearance." 

When  he  had  withdrawn  to  his  books  she  covered 
three  new  volumes  for  the  library :  the  black  came  off 
on  her  hands,  but  anyway  it  was  clean  dirt. 

She  went  to  bed  early. 

"And  that's  my  life,"  she  said  as  she  blew  out  the 
candle. 

Said  Mrs.  James  to  Mrs.  Symes  over  the  last  and 
strongest  cup  of  tea : 

"Miss  Betty's  ailing  a  bit,  I  fancy.  Looked  a  bit 
peaky,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  was 
to  go  off  in  a  decline  like  her  father  did." 

"It  wasn't  no  decline,"  said  Mrs.  Symes,  dropping 
her  thick  voice,  "  'e  was  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  his 
wicked  courses.  A  judgment  if  ever  there  was  one." 

Betty's  blameless  father  had  been  killed  in  the  hunt- 
ing field. 

"I  daresay  she  takes  after  him,  only  being  a  fem'ale 
it  all  turns  to  her  being  pernickety  in  her  food  and 
allus  wanting  the  windows  open.  And  mark  my  words, 
it  may  turn  into  a  decline  yet,  Mrs.  Symes,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Symes  laughed  fatly.  "That  ain't  no  decline," 
she  said,  "you  take  it  from  me.  What  Miss  Betty 
wants  is  a  young  man.  It  is  but  nature  after  all,  and 
what  we  must  all  come  to,  gentle  or  simple.  Give  her 
a  young  man  to  walk  out  with  and  you'll  see  the  dif- 
ference. Decline  indeed!  A  young  man's  what  she 
wants.  And  if  I  know  anything  of  gells  and  their  ways 


8  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

she'll  get  one,  no  matter  how  close  the  old  chap  keeps 
her." 

Mrs.  Symes  was  not  so  wrong  as  the  delicate  minded 
may  suppose. 

Betty  did  indeed  desire  to  fall  in  love.  In  all  the 
story  books  the  main  interest  of  the  heroine's  career 
began  with  that  event.  Not  that  she  voiced  the  desire 
to  herself.  Only  once  she  voiced  it  in  her  prayers. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  said,  "do  please  let  something  hap- 
pen!" 

That  was  all.  A  girl  had  her  little  reticences,  even 
with  herself,  even  with  her  Creator. 

Next  morning  she  planned  to  go  sketching ;  but  no, 
there  were  three  more  detestable  books  to  be  put  into 
nasty  little  black  cotton  coats,  the  drawing-room  to  be 
dusted — all  the  hateful  china — the  peas  to  be  shelled 
for  dinner. 

She  shelled  the  peas  in  the  garden.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful green  garden,  and  lovers  could  have  walked  very 
happily  down  the  lilac-bordered  paths. 

"Oh,  how  sick  I  am  of  it  all!"  said  Betty.  She 
would  not  say,  even  to  herself,  that  what  she  hated  was 
the  frame  without  the  picture. 

As  she  carried  in  the  peas  she  passed  the  open  win- 
dow of  the  study  where,  among  shelves  of  dull  books 
and  dusty  pamphlets,  her  step-father  had  as  usual  for- 
gotten his  sermon  in  a  chain  of  references  to  the  Fath- 
ers. Betty  saw  his  thin  white  hairs,  his  hard  narrow 
face  and  tight  mouth,  the  hands  yellow  and  claw-like 
that  gripped  the  thin  vellum  folio. 

"I  suppose  even  he  was  young  once,"  she  said,  "but 
I'm  sure  he  doesn't  remember  it." 

He  saw  her  .eo  by,  young  and  alert  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  May  air  stirred  the  curtains.  He  looked 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  9 

vaguely  about  him,  unlocked  a  drawer  in  his  writing- 
table,  and  took  out  a  leather  case.  He  gazed  long  at 
the  face  within,  a  young  bright  face  with  long  ringlets 
above  the  formal  bodice  and  sloping  shoulders  of  the 
sixties. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "well,  well,"  locked  it  away, 
and  went  back  to  De  Poenis  Parvulorum. 

"I  will  go  out,"  said  Betty,  as  she  parted  with  the 
peas.  "I  don't  care!" 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  change  one's  frock.  Even 
when  one  was  properly  dressed,  at  rare  local  garden- 
party  or  flower-show,  one  never  met  anyone  that  mat- 
tered. 

She  fetched  her  sketching  things.  At  eighteen  one 
does  so  pathetically  try  to  feed  the  burgeoning  life  with 
the  husks  of  polite  accomplishment.  She  insisted  on 
withholding  from  the  clutches  of  the  Parish  the  time 
to  practise  Beethoven  and  Sullivan  for  an  hour  daily. 
Daily,  for  half  an  hour,  she  read  an  improving  book. 
Just  now  it  was  The  French  Revolution,  and  Betty 
thought  it  would  last  till  she  was  sixty.  She  tried  to 
read  French  and  German — Telemaque  and  Maria 
Stuart.  She  fully  intended  to  'become  all  that  a  cul- 
tured young  woman  should  be.  But  self-improvement 
is  a  dull  game  when  there  is  no  one  to  applaud  your 
score. 

What  the  gardener  called  the  gravel  path  was  black 
earth,  moss-grown.  Very  pretty,  but  Betty  thought  it 
shabby. 

It  was  soft  and  cool,  though,  to  the  feet,  and  the 
dust  of  the  white  road  sparkled  like  diamond  dust  in 
the  sunlight. 

She  crossed  the  road  and  passed  through  the  swing 
gate  into  the  park,  where  the  grass  was  up  for  hay, 


io  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

with  red  sorrel  and  buttercups  and  tall  daisies  and 
feathery  flowered  grasses,  their  colours  all  tangled  and 
blended  together  like  ravelled  ends  of  silk  on  the  wrong 
side  of  some  great  square  of  tapestry.  Here  and  there 
in  the  wide  sweep  of  tall  growing  things  stood  a  tree — 
a  may-tree  shining  like  silver,  a  laburnum  like  fine 
gold.  There  were  horse-chestnuts  whose  spires  of  blos- 
som shewed  like  fat  candles  on  a  Christmas  tree  for 
giant  children.  And  the  sun  was  warm  and  the  tree 
shadows  black  on  the  grass. 

Betty  told  herself  that  she  hated  it  all.  She  took  the 
narrow  path — the  grasses  met  above  her  feet — crossed 
the  park,  and  reached  the  rabbit  warren,  where  the 
chalk  breaks  through  the  thin  dry  turf,  and  the  wild 
thyme  grows  thick. 

A  may  bush,  overhanging  a  little  precipice  of  chalk, 
caught  her  eye.  A  wild  rose  was  tangled  round  it.  It 
was,  without  doubt,  the  most  difficult  composition  with- 
in sight. 

"I  will  sketch  that,"  said  Eighteen,  confidently. 

For  half  an  hour  she  busily  blotted  and  washed  and 
niggled.  Then  she  became  aware  that  she  no  longer 
had  the  rabbit  warren  to  herself. 

"And  he's  an  artist,  too!"  said  Betty.  "How  aw- 
fully interesting!  I  wish  I  could  see  his  face." 

But  this  his  slouched  Panama  forbade.  He  was  in 
white,  the  sleeve  and  breast  of  his  painting  jacket 
smeared  with  many  colours ;  he  had  a  camp-stool  and 
an  easel  and  looked,  she  could  not  help  feeling,  much 
more  like  a  real  artist  than  she  did,  hunched  up  as  she 
was  on  a  little  mound  of  turf,  in  her  shabby  pink  gown 
and  that  hateful  garden  hat  with  last  year's  dusty 
flattened  roses  in  it. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  11 

She  went  on  sketching  with  feverish  unskilled 
fingers,  and  a  pulse  that  had  actually  quickened  its  beat. 

She  cast  little  glances  at  him  as  often  as  she  dared. 
He  was  certainly  a  real  artist.  She  could  tell  that  by 
the  very  way  he  held  his  palette.  Was  he  staying  with 
people  about  there?  Should  she  meet  him?  Would 
they  ever  be  introduced  to  each  other? 

"Oh,  what  a  pity,"  said  Betty  from  the  heart,  "that 
we  aren't  introduced  now!" 

Her  sketch  grew  worse  and  worse. 

"It's  no  good,"  she  said.  "I  can't  do  anything  with 
it." 

She  glanced  at  him.  He  had  pushed  back  the  hat. 
She  saw  quite  plainly  that  he  was  smiling — a  very  lit- 
tle, but  he  was  smiling.  Also  he  was  looking  at  her, 
and  across  the  fifteen  yards  of  gray  turf  their  eyes  met. 
And  she  knew  that  he  knew  that  this  was  not  her  first 
glance  at  him. 

She  paled  with  fury. 

"He  has  been  watching  me  all  the  time !  He  is  mak- 
ing fun  of  me.  He  knows  I  can't  sketch.  Of  course 
he  can  see  it  by  the  silly  way  I  hold  everything."  She 
ran  her  knife  around  her  sketch,  detached  it,  and  tore 
it  across  and  across. 

The  stranger  raised  his  hat  and  called  eagerly. 

"I  say — please  don't  move  for  a  minute.  Do  you 
mind?  I've  just  got  your  pink  gown.  It's  coming 
beautifully.  Between  brother  artists — Do,  please!  Do 
sit  still  and  go  on  sketching — Ah,  do !" 

Betty's  attitude  petrified  instantly.  She  held  a  brush 
in  her  hand,  and  she  looked  down  at  her  block.  But 
she  did  not  go  on  sketching.  She  sat  rigid  and  three 
delicious  words  rang  in  her  ears :  "Between  brother 
artists !"  How  very  nice  of  him !  He  hadn't  been  mak- 


12  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

ing  fun,  after  all.  But  wasn't  it  rather  impertinent  of 
him  to  put  her  in  his  picture  without  asking  her?  Well, 
it  wasn't  she  but  her  pink  gown  he  wanted.  And  "be- 
tween brother  artists!"  Betty  drew  a  long  breath. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  called;  "don't  bother  any  more. 
The  pose  is  gone." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  he  came  towards  her. 

"Let  me  see  the  sketch,"  he  said.  "Why  did  you 
tear  it  up?"  He  fitted  the  pieces  together.  "Why,  it's 
quite  good.  You  ought  to  study  in  Paris,"  he  added 
idly. 

She  took  the  torn  papers  from  his  hand  with  a  bow, 
and  turned  to  go. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said.  You're  not  going?  Don't 
you  want  to  look  at  my  picture?" 

Now  Betty  knew  as  well  as  you  do  that  you  musn't 
speak  to  people  unless  you've  been  introduced  to  them. 
But  the  phrase  "brother  artists"  had  played  ninepins 
with  her  little  conventions. 

"Thank  you.  I  should  like  to  very  much,"  said 
Betty.  "I  don't  care,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  be- 
sides, it's  not  as  if  he  were  a  young  man,  or  a  tourist, 
or  anything.  He  must  be  ever  so  old — thirty;  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  thirty-five." 

When  she  saw  the  picture  she  merely  said,  "Oh," 
and  stood  at  gaze.  For  it  was  a  picture — a  picture 
that,  seen  in  foreign  lands,  might  well  make  one  sick 
with  longing  for  the  dry  turf  and  the  pale  dog  violets 
that  love  the  chalk,  for  the  hum  of  the  bees  and  the 
scent  of  the  thyme.  He  had  chosen  the  bold  sweep  of 
the  brown  upland  against  the  sky,  and  low  to  the  left, 
where  the  line  broke,  the  dim  violet  of  the  Kentish  hills. 
In  the  green  foreground  the  pink  figure,  just  roughly 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  13 

blocked  in,  was  blocked  in  by  a  hand  that  knew  its 
trade,  and  was  artist  to  the  tips  of  its  fingers. 

"Oh!"  said  Betty  again. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  think  I've  got  it  this  time.  I  think 
it'll  make  a  hole  in  the  wall,  eh?  Yes;  it  is  good!" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty;  "oh,  yes." 

"Do  you  often  go  a-sketching  ?"  he  asked. 

"How  modest  he  is,"  thought  Betty;  "he  changes 
the  subject  so  as  not  to  seem  to  want  to  be  praised." 
Aloud  she  answered  with  shy  fluttered  earnestness: 
"Yes — no.  I  don't  know.  Sometimes." 

His  lips  were  grave,  but  there  was  the  light  behind 
his  eyes  that  goes  with  a  smile. 

"What  unnecessary  agitation!"  he  was  thinking. 
"Poor  little  thing,  I  suppose  she's  never  seen  a  man 
before.  Oh,  these  country  girls !"  Aloud  he  was  say- 
ing: "This  is  such  a  perfect  country.  You  ought  to 
sketch  every  day." 

"I've  no  one  to  teach  me,"  said  Betty,  innocently 
phrasing  a  long-felt  want. 

The  man  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Well,  after  that, 
here  goes!"  he  said  to  himself.  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
teach  you,"  he  said  to  her,  beginning  to  put  his  traps 
together. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Betty  in  real  distress. 
What  would  he  think  of  her?  How  greedy  and  grasp- 
ing she  must  seem !  "I  didn't  mean  that  at  all !" 

"No;  but  I  do,"  he  said. 

"But  you're  a  great  artist,"  said  Betty,  watching  him 
with  clasped  hands.  "I  suppose  it  would  be — I  mean — 
don't  you  know,  we're  not  rich,  and  I  suppose  your  les- 
sons are  worth  pounds  and  pounds." 

"I  don't  give  lessons  for  money,"  'his  lips  tightened 
— "only  for  love." 


14  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"That  means  nothing,  doesn't  it?"  she  said,  and 
flushed  to  find  herself  on  the  defensive  feebly  against — • 
nothing. 

"At  tennis,  yes,"  he  said,  and  to  himself  he  added : 
"Vicux  jeu,  my  dear,  but  you  did  it  very  prettily." 

"But  I  couldn't  let  you  give  me  lessons  for  nothing." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  And  his  calmness  made 
Betty  feel  ashamed  and  sordid. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  tremulously,  but  I 
don't  think  my  step-father  would  want  me  to." 

"You  think  it  would  annoy  him?" 

"I'm  sure  it  would,  if  he  knew  about  it." 

Betty  was  thinking  how  little  her  step-father  had 
ever  cared  to  know  of  her  and  her  interests.  But  the 
man  caught  the  ball  as  he  saw  it. 

"Then  why  let  him  know?"  was  the  next  move;  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  Betty's  move  of  rejoinder  came 
with  a  readiness  born  of  some  practice  at  the  game. 

"Oh,"  she  said  innocently,  "I  never  thought  of 
that!  But  wouldn't  it  be  wrong?" 

"She's  got  the  whole  thing  stereotyped.  But  it's 
dainty  type  anyhow,"  he  thought.  Of  course  it 
wouldn't  be  wrong,"  he  said.  "It  wouldn't  hurt  him. 
Don't  you  know  that  nothing's  wrong  unless  it  hurts 
somebody?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly,  "that's  what  I  think.  But 
all  the  same  it  doesn't  seem  fair  that  you  should  take 
all  that  trouble  for  me  and  get  nothing  in  return." 

"Well  played!  We're  getting  on!"  he  thought,  and 
added  aloud:  "But  perhaps  I  shan't  get  nothing  in 
return?" 

Her  eyes  dropped  over  the  wonderful  thought  that 
perhaps  she  might  do  something  for  him.  But  what? 
She  looked  straight  at  him,  and  the  innocent  appeal 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  15 

sent  a  tiny  thorn  of  doubt  through  his  armour  of  com- 
placency. Was  she — after  all?  No,  no  novice  could 
play  the  game  so  well.  And  yet — 

"I  would  do  anything  I  could,  you  know,"  she  said 
eagerly,  "because  it  is  so  awfully  kind  of  you,  and  I  do 
so  want  to  be  able  to  paint.  What  can  I  do?" 

"What  can  you  do  ?"  he  asked,  and  brought  his  face 
a  little  nearer  to  the  pretty  flushed  freckled  face  under 
the  shabby  hat.  Her  eyes  met  his.  He  felt  a  quick 
relenting,  and  drew  back. 

"Well,  for  one  thing  you  could  let  me  paint  your 
portrait." 

Betty  was  silent. 

"Come,  play  up,  you  little  duffer,"  he  urged  in- 
wardly. 

When  she  spoke  her  voice  trembled. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  she  said. 

"And  you  will?" 

"Oh,  I  will;  indeed  I  will!" 

"How  good  and  sweet  you  are,"  he  said.  Then  there 
was  a  silence. 

Betty  tightened  the  strap  of  her  sketching  things  and 
said: 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  home  now." 

He  had  the  appropriate  counter  ready. 

"Ah,  don't  go  yet!"  he  said;  "let  us  sit  down;  see, 
that  bank  is  quite  in  the  shade  now,  and  tell  me — " 

"Tell  you  what?"  she  asked,  for  he  had  made  the 
artistic  pause. 

"Oh,  anything — anything  about  yourself." 

Betty  was  as  incapable  of  flight  as  any  bird  on  a 
limed  twig. 

She  walked  beside  him  to  the  bank,  and  sat  down  at 
his  bidding,  and  he  lay  at  her  feet,  looking  up  into  her 


16  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

eyes.  He  asked  idle  questions :  sne  answered  them 
With  a  conscientious  tremulous  truthfulness  that 
showed  to  him  as  the  most  finished  art.  And  it  seemed 
to  him  a  very  fortunate  accident  that  he  should  have 
found  here,  in  this  unlikely  spot,  so  accomplished  a 
player  at  his  favorite  game.  Yet  it  was  the  variety 
of  his  game  for  which  he  cared  least.  He  did  not 
greatly  relish  a  skilled  adversary.  Betty  told  him  ner- 
vously and  in  words  ill-chosen  everything  that  he  asked 
to  know,  but  all  the  while  the  undercurrent  of  questions 
rang  strong  within  her — "When  is  he  to  teach  me? 
Where?  How?" — so  that  when  at  last  there  was  left 
but  the  bare  fifteen  minutes  needed  to  get  one  home  in 
time  for  the  midday  dinner  she  said  abruptly : 

"And  when  shall  I  see  you  again?" 

"You  take  the  words  out  of  my  mouth,"  said  he. 
And  indeed  she  had.  "She  has  no  finesse  yet,"  he  told 
himself.  "She  might  have  left  that  move  to  me." 

"The  lessons,  you  know,"  said  Betty,  "and,  and  the 
picture,  if  you  really  do  want  to  do  it." 

"If  I  want  to  do  it! — You  know  I  want  to  do  it. 
Yes.  It's  like  the  nursery  game.  How,  when  and 
where  ?  Well,  as  to  the  how — I  can  paint  and  you  can 
learn.  The  where — there's  a  circle  of  pines  in  the 
wood  here.  You  know  it?  A  sort  of  giant  fairy 
ring?" 

She  did  know  it. 

"Now  for  the  When — and  that's  the  most  important. 
I  should  like  to  paint  you  in  the  early  morning  when 
the  day  is  young  and  innocent  and  beautiful — like — 
like — "  He  was  careful  to  break  off  in  a  most  natural 
seeming  embarrassment.  "That's  a  bit  thick,  but  she'll 
swallow  it  all  right.  Gone  down?  Right!"  he  told 
himself. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  17 

"I  could  come  out  at  six  if  you  liked,  or — or  five," 
said  Betty,  humbly  anxious  to  do  her  part. 

He  was  almost  shocked.  "My  good  child/'  he  told 
her  silently,  "someone  really  ought  to  teach  you  not  to 
do  all  the  running.  You  don't  give  a  man  a  chance." 

"Then  will  you  meet  me  here  to-morrow  at  six?" 
he  said.  "You  won't  disappoint  me,  will  you?"  he 
added  tenderly. 

"No,"  said  downright  Betty,  "I'll  be  sure  to  come. 
But  not  to-morrow,"  she  added  with  undisguised  re- 
gret; "to-morrow's  Sunday." 

"Monday  then,"  said  'he,  "and  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  and — oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you!" 

"I'm  very  much  mistaken  if  you  don't,"  he  said 
as  he  stood  bareheaded,  watching  the  pink  gown  out 
of  sight. 

"Well,  adventures  to  the  adventurous!  A  clergy- 
man's daughter,  too!  I  might  have  known  it." 


CHAPTER  II. 
THE  IRRESISTIBLE. 

Betty  had  to  run  all  the  way  home,  and  then  she  was 
late  for  dinner.  Her  step-father's  dry  face  and  dusty 
clothes,  the  solid  comfort  of  the  mahogany  furnished 
dining  room,  the  warm  wet  scent  of  mutton, — these 
seemed  needed  to  wake  her  from  what  was,  when  she 
had  awakened,  a  dream — the  open  sky,  the  sweet  air  of 
the  May  fields  and  Him.  Already  the  stranger  was 
Him  to  Betty.  But,  then,  she  did  not  know  his  name. 

She  slipped  into  her  place  at  the  foot  of  the  long 
white  dining  table,  a  table  built  to  serve  a  dozen  guests, 
and  where  no  guests  ever  sat,  save  rarely  a  curate  or 
two,  and  more  rarely  even,  an  aunt. 

"You  are  late  again,  Lizzie,"  said  her  step-father. 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  she,  trying  to  hide  her  hands  and 
the  fact  that  she  had  not  had  time  to  wash  them.  A 
long  streak  of  burnt  sienna  marked  one  finger,  and  her 
nails  had  little  slices  of  various  colours  in  them.  Her 
paint-box  was  always  hard  to  open. 

Usually  Mr.  Underwood  saw  nothing.  But  when  he 
saw  anything  he  saw  everything.  His  eye  was  caught 
by  the  green  smudge  on  her  pink  sleeve. 

"I  wish  you  would  contrive  to  keep  yourself  clean, 
or  else  wear  a  pinafore,"  he  said. 

Betty  flushed  scarlet. 

18 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  19 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  it's  only  water 
colour.  It  will  wash  out." 

"You  are  nearly  twenty,  are  you  not?"  the  Vicar 
inquired  with  the  dry  smile  that  always  infuriated  his 
step-daughter.  How  was  she  to  know  that  it  was  the 
only  smile  he  knew,  and  that  smiles  of  any  sort  had 
long  grown  difficult  to  him? 

"Eighteen,"  she  said. 

"It  is  almost  time  you  began  to  think  about  being 
a  lady." 

This  was  badinage.  No  failures  had  taught  the 
Reverend  Cecil  that  his  step-daughter  had  an  ideal  of 
him  in  which  badinage  had  no  place.  She  merely  sup- 
posed that  he  wished  to  be  disagreeable. 

She  kept  a  mutinous  silence.  The  old  man  sighed. 
It  is  one's  duty  to  correct  the  faults  of  one's  child,  but 
it  is  not  pleasant.  The  Reverend  Cecil  had  not  the 
habit  of  shirking  any  duty  because  he  happened  to  dis- 
like it. 

The  mutton  was  taken  away. 

Betty,  her  whole  being  transfigured  by  the  emotions 
of  the  morning,  stirred  the  stewed  rhubarb  on  her 
plate.  She  felt  rising  in  her  a  sort  of  wild  forlorn  cour- 
age. Why  shouldn't  she  speak  out?  Her  step-father 
couldn't  hate  her  more  than  he  did,  whatever  she  said. 
He  might  even  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  her.  She  spoke  sud- 
denly and  rather  loudly  before  she  knew  that  she  had 
meant  to  speak  at  all. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  to  Paris 
and  study  art.  Not  now,"  she  hurriedly  explained  with 
a  sudden  vision  of  being  taken  at  her  word  and  packed 
off  to  France  before  six  o'clock  on  Monday  morning, 
"not  now,  but  later.  In  the  autumn  perhaps.  I  would 
work  very  hard.  I  wish  you'd  let  me." 


20  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  looked  at  her  with  wist- 
ful kindness.  She  read  in  his  glance  only  a  frozen  con- 
tempt. 

"No,  my  child,"  he  said.  Paris  is  a  sink  of  iniquity. 
I  passed  a  week  there  once,  many  years  ago.  It  was 
at  the  time  of  the  Great  Exhibition.  You  are  growing 
discontented,  Lizzie.  Work  is  the  cure  for  that.  Mrs. 
Symes  tells  me  that  the  chemises  for  the  Mother's  sew- 
ing meetings  are  not  cut  out  yet." 

"I'll  cut  them  out  to-day.  They  haven't  finished  the 
shirts  yet,  anyway,"  said  Betty;  "but  I  do  wish  you'd 
just  think  about  Paris,  or  even  London." 

"You  can  have  lessons  at  home  if  you  like.  I  believe 
there  are  excellent  drawing-mistresses  in  Sevenoaks. 
Mrs.  Symes  was  recommending  one  of  them  to  me 
only  the  other  day.  With  certificates  from  the  High 
School  I  seem  to  remember  her  saying." 

"But  that's  not  what  I  want,"  said  Betty  with  a  cour- 
age that  surprised  her  as  much  as  it  surprised  him. 
"Don't  you  see,  Father  ?  One  gets  older  every  day,  and 
presently  I  shall  be  quite  old,  and  I  shan't  have  been 
anywhere  or  seen  anything." 

He  thought  he  laughed  indulgently  at  the  folly  of 
youth.  She  thought  his  laugh  the  most  contemptuous, 
the  crudest  sound  in  the  world.  "He  doesn't  deserve 
that  I  should  tell  him  about  Him,"  she  thought,  "and 
I  won't.  I  don't  care!" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "no,  no,  no.  The  home  is  the 
place  for  girls.  The  safe  quiet  shelter  of  the  home. 
Perhaps  some  day  your  husband  will  take  you  abroad 
for  a  fortnight  now  and  then.  If  you  manage  to  get 
a  husband,  that  is." 

He  had  seen,  through  his  spectacles,  her  flushed  pret- 
tiness,  and  old  as  he  was  he  remembered  well  enough 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  21 

how  a  face  like  hers  would  seem  to  a  young  man's  eyes. 
Of  course  she  would  get  a  husband?  So  he  spoke  in 
kindly  irony.  And  she  hated  him  for  a  wanton  insult. 

"Try  to  do  your  duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which 
you  are  called,"  he  went  on :  "occupy  yourself  with 
music  and  books  and  the  details  of  housekeeping.  No, 
don't  have  my  study  turned  out,"  he  added  in  haste, 
remembering  how  his  advice  about  household  details 
had  been  followed  when  last  he  gave  it.  "Don't  be  a 
discontented  child.  Go  and  cut  out  the  nice  little  chem- 
ises." This  seemed  to  him  almost  a  touch  of  kindly 
humour,  and  he  went  back  to  Augustine,  pleased  with 
himself. 

Betty  set  her  teeth  and  went,  black  rage  in  her  heart, 
to  cut  out  the  hateful  little  chemises. 

She  dragged  the  great  roll  of  evil  smelling  grayish 
unbleached  calico  from  the  schoolroom  cupboard  and 
heaved  it  on  to  th^  table.  It  was  very  heavy.  The 
scissors  were  blunt  and  left  deep  red-blue  indentations 
on  finger  and  thumb.  She  was  rather  pleased  that  the 
scissors  hurt  so  much. 

"Father  doesn't  care  a  single  bit,  he  hates  me,"  she 
said,  "and  I  hate  him.  Oh,  I  do." 

She  would  not  think  of  the  morning.  Not  now,  with 
this  fire  of  impotent  resentment  burning  in  her,  would 
she  take  out  those  memories  and  look  at  them.  Those 
were  not  thoughts  to  be  dragged  through  the  litter  of 
unbleached  cotton  cuttings.  She  worked  on  doggedly, 
completed  the  tale  of  hot  heavy  little  garments,  gath- 
ered up  the  pieces  into  the  waste-paper  basket  and  put 
away  the  roll. 

Not  till  the  paint  had  been  washed  from  her  hands, 
and  the  crumbled  print  dress  exchanged  for  a  quite 
respectable  muslin  did  she  consciously  allow  the  morn- 


22          THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

ing's  memories  to  come  out  and  meet  her  eyes.  Then 
she  went  down  to  the  arbour  where-  she  had  shelled 
peas  only  that  morning. 

"It  seems  years  and  years  ago,"  she  said.  And  sit- 
ting there,  she  slowly  and  carefully  went  over  every- 
thing. What  he  had  said,  what  she  'had  said.  There 
were  some  things  she  could  not  quite  remember.  But 
she  remembered  enough.  "Brother  artists"  were  the 
words  she  said  oftenest  to  herself,  but  the  words  that 
sank  themselves  were,  "young  and  innocent  and  beau- 
tiful like— like— 

"But  he  couldn't  'have  meant  me,  of  course/'s'he  told 
herself. 

And  on  Monday  she  would  see  him  again, — and  he 
would  give  her  a  lesson ! 

Sunday  was  incredibly  wearisome.  Her  Sunday- 
school  class  had  never  been  so  tiresome  nor  so  soaked 
in  hair-oil.  In  church  she  was  shocked  to  find  herself 
watching,  from  her  pew  in  the  chancel,  the  entry  of 
late  comers — of  whom  He  was  not  one.  No  afternoon 
had  ever  been  half  so  long.  She  wrote  up  her  diary. 
Thursday  and  Friday  were  quickly  chronicled.  At 
"Saturday"  she  paused  long,  pen  in  hand,  and  then 
wrote  very  quickly:  "I  went  out  sketching  and  met 
a  gentleman,  an  artist.  He  was  very  kind  and  is  going 
to  teach  me  to  paint  and  he  is  going  to  paint  my  por- 
trait. I  do  not  like  him  particularly.  He  is  rather  old, 
and  not  really  good-looking.  I  shall  not  tell  father,  be- 
cause he  is  simply  hateful  to  me.  I  am  going  to  meet 
this  artist  at  6  to-morrow.  It  will  be  dreadful  having 
to  get  up  so  early.  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  said  I 
would  go.  It  will  be  such  a  bother." 

Then  she  hid  the  diary  in  a  drawer,  under  her  con- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  23 

firmation  dress  and  veil,  and  locked  the  drawer  care- 
fully. 

He  was  not  at  church  in  the  evening  either.  He  had 
thought  of  it,  but  decided  that  it  was  too  much  trouble 
to  get  into  decent  clothes. 

"I  shall  see  her  soon  enough,"  he  thought,  "curse  my 
impulsive  generosity !  Six  o'clock,  forsooth,  and  all  to 
please  a  clergyman's  daughter." 

She  came  back  from  church  with  tired  steps. 

"I  do  hope  I'm  not  going  to  be  ill,"  she  said.  "I  feel 
so  odd,  just  as  if  I  hadn't  had  anything  to  eat  for  days, 
— and  yet  I'm  not  a  bit  hungry  either.  I  daresay  I 
shan't  wake  up  in  time  to  get  there  by  six." 

She  was  awake  before  five. 

She  woke  with  a  flutter  of  the  heart.  What  was  it?, 
Had  anything  happened  ?  Was  anyone  ill  ?  Then  she 
recognized  that  she  was  not  unhappy.  And  she  felt 
more  than  ever  as  though  it  were  days  since  she  had  had 
anything  to  eat. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Betty,  jumping  out  of  bed.  "I'm 
going  out,  to  meet  Him,  and  have  a  drawing-lesson!" 

She  dressed  quickly.  It  was  too  soon  to  start.  Not 
for  anything  must  she  be  first  at  the  rendezvous,  even 
though  it  were  only  for  a  drawing-lesson.  That  "only" 
pulled  her  up  sharply. 

When  she  was  dressed  she  dug  out  the  diary  and 
wrote : 

"This  is  terrible.  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  him?  I  don't  know.  'Who  ever  loved 
that  loved  not  at  first  sight?'  It  is  a  most  frightful 
tragedy  to  happen  to  one,  and  at  my  age  too.  What  a 
long  life  of  loneliness  stretches  in  front  of  me!  For  of 
course  he  could  never  care  for  me.  And  if  this  is  love 
— well,  it  will  be  once  and  forever  with  me,  I  know. 


24        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

That's  my  nature,  I'm  afraid.  But  I'm  not, — I  can't 
be.  But  I  never  felt  so  unlike  myself.  I  feel  a  sort  of 
calm  exultation,  as  if  something  very  wonderful  was 
very  near  me.  Dear  Diary,  what  a  comfort  it  is  to 
have  you  to  tell  everything  to!" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  certainly  be  late.  She 
had  to  creep  down  the  front  stairs  so  very  slowly  and 
softly  in  order  that  she  might  not  awaken  her  step- 
father. She  had  so  carefully  and  silently  to  unfasten 
a  window  and  creep  out,  to  close  the  window  again, 
without  noise,  lest  the  maids  should  hear  and  come 
running  to  see  why  their  young  mistress  was  out  of  her 
bed  at  that  hour.  She  had  to  go  on  tiptoe  through  the 
shrubbery  and  out  through  the  church  yard.  One  could 
climb  its  wall,  and  get  into  the  Park  that  way,  so  as 
not  to  meet  labourers  on  the  road  who  would  stare  to 
see  her  alone  so  early  and  perhaps  follow  her. 

Once  in  the  park  she  was  safe.  Her  shoes  and  her 
skirts  were  wet  with  dew.  She  made  haste.  She  did 
not  want  to  keep  him  waiting. 

But  she  was  first  at  the  rendezvous,  after  all. 

She  sat  down  on  the  carpet  of  pine  needles.  How 
pretty  the  early  morning  was.  The  sunlight  was  quite 
different  from  the  evening  sunlight,  so  much  lighter 
and  brighter.  And  the  shadows  were  different.  She 
tried  to  settle  on  a  point  of  view  for  her  sketch,  the 
sketch  he  was  to  help  her  with. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  what  she  had  written  in 
her  diary.  If  that  should  be  true  she  must  be  very,  very 
careful.  He  must  never  guess  it,  never.  She  would 
be  very  cold  and  distant  and  polite.  Not  hail-fellow 
well-met  with  a  "brother  artist,"  like  she  had  been  yes- 
terday. It  was  all  very  difficult  indeed.  Even  if  it 
really  did  turn  out  to  be  true,  if  the  wonderful  thing 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  25 

had  happened  to  her,  if  she  really  was  in  love  she  would 
not  try  a  bit  to  make  him  like  her.  That  would  be  for- 
ward and  "horrid."  She  would  never  try  to  attract 
any  man.  Those  things  must  come  of  themselves  or 
not  at  all. 

She  arranged  her  skirt  in  more  effective  folds,  and 
wondered  how  it  would  look  as  one  came  up  the  wood- 
land path.  She  thought  it  would  look  rather  pic- 
turesque. It  was  a  nice  heliotrope  colour.  It  would 
look  like  a  giant  Parma  violet  against  the  dark  green 
background.  She  hoped  her  hair  was  tidy.  And  that 
her  hat  was  not  very  crooked.  However  little  one 
desires  to  attract,  one  may  at  least  wish  one's  hat  to  be 
straight. 

She  looked  for  the  twentieth  time  at  her  watch,  the 
serviceable  silver  watch  that  had  been  her  mother's. 
Half-past  six,  and  he  had  not  come. 

Well,  when  he  did  come  she  would  pretend  she  had 
only  just  got  there.  Or  how  would  it  be  if  she  gave  up 
being  a  Parma  violet  and  went  a  little  way  down  the 
path  and  then  turned  back  when  she  heard  him  com- 
ing? She  walked  away  a  dozen  yards  and  stood  wait- 
ing. But  he  did  not  come.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was 
not  coming?  Was  he  ill — lying  uncared  for  at  the  Peal 
of  Bells  in  the  village,  with  no  one  to  smooth  his  pil- 
low or  put  eau-de-cologne  on  his  head? 

She  walked  a  hundred  yards  or  so  towards  the  vil- 
lage on  the  spur  of  this  thought. 

Or  perhaps  he  had  come  by  another  way  to  the  tryst- 
ing  place?  That  thought  drove  her  back.  He  was  not 
there. 

Well,  she  would  not  stay  any  longer.  She  would 
just  go  away,  and  come  back  ever  so  much  later,  and 
let  him  have  a  taste  of  waiting.  She  had  had  her 


-6  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

share,  she  told  herself,  as  she  almost  ran  from  the  spot. 
She  stopped  suddenly.  But  suppose  he  did  not  wait? 
She  went  slowly  back. 

She  sat  down  again,  schooled  herself  to  patience. 

What  an  idiot  she  had  been!  Like  any  school-girl. 
Of  course  he  had  never  meant  to  come.  Why  should 
he?  That  page  in  her  diary  called  out  to  her  to  come 
home  and  burn  it.  Care  for  him  indeed!  Not  she! 
Why  she  hadn't  exchanged  ten  words  with  the  man ! 

"But  I  knew  it  was  all  nonsense  when  I  wrote  it,"  she 
said.  "I  only  just  put  it  down  to  see  what  it  would 

look  like." 

***** 

Mr.  Eustace  Vernon  roused  himself,  and  yawned. 

"It's  got  to  be  done,  I  suppose.  Buck  up, — you'll 
feel  better  after  your  bath !  Jove !  Seven  o'clock.  Will 
she  have  waited?  She's  a  keen  player  if  she  has.  It's 
just  worth  trying,  I  suppose." 

The  church  clock  struck  the  half-hour  as  he  turned 
into  the  wood.  Something  palely  violet  came  towards 
him. 

"So  you  are  here,"  he  said.  "Where's  the  pink 
frock?" 

"It's — it's  going  to  the  wash,"  said  a  stiff  and  stifled 
voice.  "I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  get  here  at  six.  I  hope 
you  didn't  wait  long?" 

"Not  very  long,"  he  said,  smiling;  "but — Great 
Heavens,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said 

"But  you've  been — you  are — " 

"I'm  not,"  she  said  defiantly, — "besides,  I've  got 
neuralgia.  It  always  makes  me  look  like  that." 

"My  Aunt!"  he  thought.  "Then  she  zvas  here  at 
six  and — she's  been  crying  because  I  wasn't  and — oh, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  27 

where  are  we?"  "I'm  so  sorry  you've  got  neuralgia," 
he  said  gently,  "but  I'm  awfully  glad  you  didn't  get 
here  at  six.  Because  my  watch  was  wrong  and  I've 
only  just  got  here,  and  I  should  never  have  forgiven 
myself  if  you'd  waited  for  me  a  single  minute.  Is  the 
neuralgia  better  now?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly,  "much  better.  It 
was  rather  sharp  while  it  lasted,  though." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  see  it  was.  I  am  so  glad  you  did 
come.  But  I  was  so  certain  you  wouldn't  that  I  didn't 
bring  any  of  my  traps.  So  we  can't  begin  the  picture 
to-day.  Will  you  start  a  sketch,  or  is  your  neuralgia 
too  bad?" 

He  knew  it  would  be :  and  it  was. 

So  they  merely  sat  on  the  pine  carpet  and  talked 
till  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  back  to  the  late  Rectory 
breakfast.  They  told  each  other  their  names  that  day, 
Betty  talked  very  carefully.  It  was  most  important 
that  he  should  think  well  of  her.  Her  manner  had 
changed,  as  she  had  promised  herself  it  should  do  if  she 
found  she  cared  for  him.  Now  she  was  with  him  she 
knew,  of  course,  that  she  did  not  care  at  all.  What 
had  made  her  so  wretched — no,  so  angry  that  she  had 
actually  cried,  was  simply  the  idea  that  she  had  been 
made  a  fool  of.  That  she  had  kept  the  tryst  and  he 
hadn't.  Now  he  had  come  she  was  quite  calm.  She 
did  not  care  in  the  least. 

He  was  saying  to  himself:  "I'm  not  often  wrong, 
but  I  was  off  the  line  yesterday.  All  that  doesn't  count. 
We  take  a  fresh  deal  and  start  fair.  She  doesn't  know 
the  game,  mais  elle  a  dcs  moyens.  She's  never  played 
the  game  before.  And  she  cried  because  I  didn't  turn 
no.  And  so  I'm  the  first — tH'nk  nf  it,  if  von  nle^se — 
absolutely  the  first  one !  Well :  it  doesn't  detract  from 


28  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  ' 

the  interest  of  the  game.  It's  quite  a  different  game 
and  requires  more  skill.  But  not  more  than  I  have,  per- 
haps."' 

They  parted  with  another  tryst  set  for  the  next 
morning.  The  brother  artist  note  had  been  skilfully 
kept  vibrating. 

Betty  was  sure  that  she  should  never  have  any  feel- 
ing for  him  but  mere  friendliness.  She  was  glad  of 
that.  It  must  be  dreadful  to  be  really  in  love.  So 
unsettling. 


CHAPTER  III. 
VOLUNTARY. 

Mr.  Eustace  Vernon  is  not  by  any  error  to  be  imag- 
ined as  a  villain  of  the  deepest  dye,  coldly  planning  to 
bring  misery  to  a  simple  village  maiden  for  his  own 
selfish  pleasure.  Not  at  all.  As  he  himself  would  have 
put  it,  he  meant  no  harm  to  the  girl.  He  was  a  mas- 
ter of  two  arts,  and  to  these  he  had  devoted  himself 
wholly.  One  was  the  art  of  painting.  But  one  cannot 
paint  for  all  the  hours  there  are.  In  the  intervals  of 
painting  Vernon  always  sought  to  exercise  his  other 
art.  One  is  limited,  of  course,  by  the  possibilities,  but 
he  liked  to  have  always  at  least  one  love  affair  on  hand. 
And  just  now  there  were  none, — none  at  least  possess- 
ing the  one  charm  that  irresistibly  drew  him — newness. 
The  one  or  two  affairs  that  dragged  on  merely  meant 
letter  writing,  and  he  hated  writing  letters  almost  as 
much  as  he  hated  reading  them. 

The  country  had  been  unfortunately  barren  of  inter- 
est until  his  eyes  fell  on  that  sketching  figure  in  the 
pink  dress.  For  he  respected  one  of  his  arts  no  less 
than  the  other,  and  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
painting  a  vulgar  picture  as  of  undertaking  a  vulgar 
love-affair.  He  was  no  pavement  artist.  Nor  did  he 
degrade  his  art  by  caricatures  drawn  in  hotel  bars. 
Dairy  maids  did  not  delight  him,  and  the  mood  was 
rare  with  him  in  which  one  finds  anything  to  say  to  a 

29 


30  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

little  milliner.  He  wanted  the  means,  not  the  end,  and 
was  at  one  with  the  unknown  sage  who  said:  "The 
love  of  pleasure  spoils  the  pleasure  of  love." 

There  is  a  gift,  less  rare  than  is  supposed,  of  wiping 
the  slate  clean  of  memories,  and  beginning  all  over 
again :  a  certain  virginity  of  soul  that  makes  each  new 
kiss  the  first  kiss,  each  new  love  the  only  love.  This 
gift  was  Vernon's,  and  he  had  cultivated  it  so  earnest- 
ly, so  delicately,  that  except  in  certain  moods  when  he 
lost  his  temper,  and  with  it  his  control  of  his  impulses, 
he  was  able  to  bring  even  to  a  conservatory  flirtation 
something  of  the  fresh  emotion  of  a  schoolboy  in  love. 

Betty's  awkwardnesses,  which  he  took  for  advances, 
had  chilled  him  a  little,  though  less  than  they  would 
have  done  had  not  one  of  the  evil-tempered  moods  been 
on  him. 

He  had  dreaded  lest  the  affair  should  advance  too 
quickly.  His  own  taste  was  for  the  first  steps  in  an 
affair  of  the  heart,  the  delicate  doubts,  the  planned  mis- 
understandings. He  did  not  question  his  own  ability 
to  conduct  the  affair  capably  from  start  to  finish,  but  he 
hated  to  skip  the  dainty  preliminaries.  He  had  feared 
that  with  Betty  he  should  have  to  skip  them,  for  he 
knewr  that  it  is  only  in  their  first  love  affairs  that  wom- 
en have  the  patience  to  watch  the  flower  unfold  itself. 
He  himself  was  of  infinite  patience  in  that  pastime.  He 
bit  his  lip  and  struck  with  his  cane  at  the  buttercup 
heads.  He  had  made  a  wretched  beginning,  with  his 
"good  and  sweet."  his  "young  n.nd  innocent  and  beau- 
tiful like — li'ke."  If  the  girl  had  been  a  shade  less  inno- 
cent the  whole  business  would  have  been  muffed — 
muffed  hopelessly. 

To-morrow  he  would  be  there  early.  A  ship  of 
promise  should  be — not  launched — that  was  weeks 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  31 

away.  The  first  timbers  should  be  felled  to  build  a 
ship  to  carry  him,  and  her  too,  of  course,  a  little  way 
towards  the  enchanted  islands. 

He  knew  the  sea  well,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
steer  on  it  one  to  whom  it  was  all  new — all,  all. 

"Dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose  she  has 
ever  even  thought  of  love." 

He  was  not  in  love  with  her,  but  he  meant  to  be.  He 
carefully  thought  of  her  all  that  day,  of  her  hair,  her 
eyes,  her  hands;  her  hands  were  really  beautiful — 
small,  dimpled  and  well-shaped — not  the  hands  he 
loved  best,  those  were  long  and  very  slender, — but  still 
beautiful.  And  before  he  went  to  bed  he  wrote  a  little 
poem,  to  encourage  himself: 


Yes.    I  have  loved  before ;  I  know 
This  longing  that  invades  my  days, 
This  shape  that  haunts  life's  busy  ways 

I  know  since  long  and  long  ago. 

This  starry  mystery  of  delight 
That  floats  across  my  eager  eyes, 
This  pain  that  makes  earth  Paradise, 

These  magic  songs  of  day  and  night. 

I  know  them  for  the  things  they  are : 
A  passing  pain,  a  longing  fleet, 
A  shape  that  soon  I  shall  not  meet, 

A  fading  dream  of  veil  and  star. 

Yet,  even  as  my  lips  proclaim 

The  wisdom  that  the  years  have  lent, 


32  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Your  absence  is  joy's  banishment 
And  life's  one  music  is  your  name. 

I  love  you  to  the  heart's  hid  core : 

Those  other  loves?    How  can  one  learn 
From  marshlights  how  the  great  fires  burn? 

Ah,  no — I  never  loved  before! 

When  he  read  it  through  he  entitled  it,  "The  Veil  of 
Maya,"  so  that  it  might  pretend  to  have  no  personal 
application. 

After  that  more  than  ever  rankled  the  memory  of 
that  first  morning. 

"How  could  I?"  he  asked  himself.  "I  must  indeed 
have  been  in  a  gross  mood.  One  seems  sometimes  to 
act  outside  oneself  altogether.  Temporary  possession 
by  some  brutal  ancestor  perhaps.  Well,  it's  not  too 
late." 

Next  morning  he  worked  at  his  picture,  in  the 
rabbit-warren,  but  his  head  found  itself  turning  to- 
wards the  way  by  which  on  that  first  day  she  had  gone. 
She  must  know  that  on  a  day  like  this  he  would  not  be 
wasting  the  light, — that  he  would  be  working.  She 
would  be  wanting  to  see  him  again.  Would  she  come 
out?  He  wished  she  would.  But  he  hoped  she 
wouldn't.  It  would  have  meant  another  readjustment 
of  ideas.  He  need  not  have  been  anxious.  She  did 
not  come. 

He  worked  steadily,  masterfully.  He  always  worked 
best  at  the  beginning  of  a  love  affair.  All  of  him 
seemed  somehow  more  alive,  more  awake,  more  alert 
and  competent.  His  mood  was  growing  quickly  to 
what  he  meant  it  to  be.  He  was  what  actors  call  a 
quick  study.  Soon  he  would  be  able  to  play  perfectly, 


THE  INCOMPLETE   AMORIST          33 

without  so  much  as  a  thought  to  the  "book,"  the  part 
of  Paul  to  this  child's  Virginia. 

Had  Virginia,  he  wondered,  any  relations  besides 
the  step-father  whom  she  so  light-heartedly  consented 
to  hoodwink  ?  Relations  who  might  interfere  and  pray 
and  meddle  and  spoil  things? 

However  ashamed  we  may  be  of  our  relations  they 
cannot  forever  be  concealed.  It  must  be  owned  that 
Betty  was  not  the  lonely  orphan  she  sometimes  pre- 
tended to  herself  to  be.  She  had  aunts — an  accident 
that  may  happen  to  the  best  of  us. 

A  year  or  two  before  Betty  was  born,  a  certain 
youth  of  good  birth  left  Harrow  and  went  to  Ealing 
where  he  was  received  in  a  family  in  the  capacity  of 
Crammer's  pup.  The  family  was  the  Crammer  and  his 
daughter,  a  hard-headed,  tight-mouthed,  black-haired 
young  woman  who  knew  exactly  what  she  wanted,  and 
who  meant  to  get  it.  Poverty  had  taught  her  to  know 
what  she  wanted.  Nature,  and  the  folly  of  youth — not 
her  own  youth — taught  her  how  to  get  it.  There  were 
several  pups.  She  selected  the  most  eligible,  secretly 
married  him,  and  to  the  day  of  her  death  spoke  and 
thought  of  the  marriage  as  a  love-match.  He  was  a 
dreamy  youth,  who  wrote  verses  and  called  the  Cram- 
mer's daughter  his  Egeria.  She  was  too  clever  not  to 
be  kind  to  him,  and  he  adored  her  and  believed  in  her 
to  the  end,  which  came  before  his  twenty-first  birth- 
day. He  broke  his  neck  out  hunting,  and  died  before 
Betty  was  born. 

His  people,  exasperated  at  the  news  of  the  marriage, 
threatened  to  try  to  invalidate  it  on  the  score  of  the 
false  swearing  that  had  been  needed  to  get  the  boy  of 
nineteen  married  to  the  woman  of  twenty-four.  Egeria 


34          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

was  frightened.  She  compromised  for  an  annuity  of 
two  hundred  pounds,  to  be  continued  to  her  child. 

The  passion  of  this  woman's  life  was  power.  One 
cannot  be  very  powerful  with  just  two  hundred  a  year, 
and  a  doubtful  position  ns  the  widow  of  a  boy  whose 
relations  are  prepared  to  dispute  one's  marriage.  Mrs. 
Desmond  spent  three  years  in  thought,  and  in  caring 
severely  for  the  wants  of  her  child.  Then  she  bought 
four  handsome  dresses,  and  some  impressive  bonnets, 
went  to  a  Hydropathic  Establishment,  and  looked 
about  her.  Of  the  eligible  men  there  Mr.  Cecil  Under- 
wood seemed,  on  enquiry,  to  be  the  most  eligible.  So 
she  married  him.  He  resisted  but  little,  for  his  parish 
needed  a  clergywoman  sadly.  The  two  hundred  pounds 
was  a  welcome  addition  to  an  income  depleted  by  the 
purchase  of  rare  editions,  and  at  the  moment  crippled 
bv  his  recent  acquisition  of  the  Omiliae  of  Vincentius 
in  its  original  oak  boards  and  leather  strings;  and, 
above  all,  he  saw  in  the  three-year-old  Betty  the  child 
he  might  have  had  if  things  had  gone  otherwise  with 
him  and  another  when  they  both  were  young. 

Mrs.  Desmond  had  felt  certain  she  could  rule  a  par- 
ish. Mrs.  Cecil  Underwood  did  rule  it — as  she  had 
known  she  could.  She  ruled  her  husband  too.  And 
Betty.  When  she  caught  cold  from  working  all  day 
among  damp  evergreens  for  the  Christmas  decorations, 
and,  developing  pneumonia,  died,  she  died  resentfully, 
thanking  God  that  she  had  always  done  her  duty,  and 
quite  unable  to  imagine  how  the  world  would  go  on 
without  her.  She  felt  almost  sure  that  in  cutting  short 
her  career  of  usefulness  her  Creator  was  guilty  of  an 
error  of  judgment  which  He  would  sooner  or  later  find 
reason  to  regret. 

Her  husband  mourned  her.  He  had  the  habit  of  her, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  35 

of  her  strong  capable  ways,  the  clockwork  precision  of 
her  household  and  parish  arrangemencs.  But  as  time 
went  on  he  saw  that  perhaps  he  was  more  comfort- 
able without  her:  as  a  reformed  drunkard  sees  that  it 
is  better  not  to  rely  on  brandy  for  one's  courage.  He 
saw  it,  but  of  course  he  never  owned  it  to  himself. 

Betty  was  heart-broken,  quite  sincerely  heart-broken. 
She  forgot  all  the  mother's  hard  tyrannies,  her  cramp- 
ing rules,  her  narrow  bitter  creed,  and  remembered 
only  the  calm  competence,  amounting  to  genius,  with 
which  her  mother  had  ruled  the  village  world,  her  un- 
flagging energy  and  patience,  and  her  rare  moments 
of  tenderness.  She  remembered  too  all  her  own  lapses 
from  filial  duty,  and  those  memories  were  not  comfort- 
able. 

Yet  Betty  too,  when  the  self-tormenting  remorseful 
stage  had  worn  itself  out,  found  life  fuller,  freer 
without  her  mother.  Her  step-father  she  hated — had 
always  hated.  But  he  could  be  avoided.  She  went  to 
a  boarding-school  at  Torquay,  and  some  of  her  holi- 
days were  spent  with  her  aunts,  the  sisters  of  the  boy- 
father  who  had  not  lived  to  see  Betty. 

She  adored  the  aunts.  They  lived  in  a  world  of 
which  her  village  world  did  not  so  much  as  dream; 
they  spoke  of  things  which  folks  at  home  neither  knew 
of  nor  cared  for;  and  they  spoke  a  language  that  was 
not  spoken  at  Long  Barton.  Of  course,  everyone  who 
was  anyone  at  Long  Barton  spoke  in  careful  and  cor- 
rect English,  but  no  one' ever  troubled  to  turn  a  phrase. 
And  irony  would  have  been  considered  very  bad  form 
indeed.  Aunt  Nina  wore  lovely  clothes  and  powdered 
her  still  pretty  face :  Aunt  Julia  smoked  cigarettes  and 
used  words  that  ladies  at  Long  Barton  did  not  use. 
Betty  was  proud  of  them  both. 


36  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

It  was  Aunt  Nina  who  taught  Betty  how  to  spend 
her  allowance,  how  to  buy  pretty  things,  and,  better 
still,  tried  to  teach  her  how  to  wear  them.  Aunt  Julia 
it  was  who  brought  her  the  Indian  necklaces,  and  prom- 
ised to  take  her  to  Italy  some  day  if  she  was  good. 
Aunt  Nina  lived  in  Grosvenor  Square  and  Aunt  Julia's 
address  was  most  often,  vaguely,  the  Continent  of  Eu- 
rope. Sometimes  a  letter  addressed  to  some  odd  place 
in  Asia  or  America  would  find  her. 

But  when  Betty  had  left  school  her  visits  to  Aunt 
Nina  ceased.  Mr.  Underwood  feared  that  she  was 
now  of  an  age  to  be  influenced  by  trifles,  and  that  Lon- 
don society  would  make  her  frivolous.  Besides  he  had 
missed  her  horribly,  all  through  her  school-days, 
though  he  had  yielded  to  the  insistence  of  the  aunts. 
But  he  had  wanted  Betty  badly.  Only  of  course  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  tell  her  so. 

So  Betty  had  lived  on  at  the  Rectory  carrying  on, 
with  more  or  less  of  success,  such  of  her  Mother's  Par- 
ish workings  as  had  managed  to  outlive  their  author, 
and  writing  to  the  aunts  to  tell  them  how  bored  she 
was  and  how  she  hated  to  be  called  "Lizzie." 

She  could  not  be  expected  to  know  that  her  step- 
father had  known  as  "Lizzie"  the  girl  who,  if  Fate  had 
been  kind,  would  have  been  his  wife  or  the  mother  of 
his  child.  Betty's  letters  breathed  contempt  of  Parish 
matters,  weariness  of  the  dulness  of  the  country,  and 
exasperation  at  the  hardness  of  a  lot  where  "nothing 
ever  happened." 

Well,  something  had  happened  now. 

The  tremendous  nature  of  the  secret  she  was  keep- 
ing against  the  world  almost  took  Betty's  breath  away. 
It  was  to  the  adventure,  far  more  than  to  the  man,  that 
her  heart's  beat  quickened.  Something  had  happened. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  37 

Long  Barton  was  no  longer  the  dullest  place  in  the 
world.  It  was  the  centre  of  the  universe.  See  her 
diary,  an  entry  following  a  gap  where  a  page  had  been 
torn  out : 

"Mr.  V.  is  very  kind.  He  is  teaching  me  to  sketch. 
He  says  I  shall  do  very  well  when  I  have  forgotten 
what  I  learned  at  school.  It  is  so  nice  of  him  to  be  so 
straightforward.  I  hate  flattery.  He  has  begun  my 
portrait.  It  is  beautiful,  but  he  says  it  is  exactly  like 
me.  Of  course  it  is  his  painting  that  makes  it  beauti- 
ful, and  not  anything  to  do  with  me.  That  is  not  flat- 
tery. I  do  not  think  he  could  say  anything  unless  he 
really  thought  it.  He  is  that  sort  of  man,  I  think.  I 
am  so  glad  he  is  so  good.  If  he  were  a  different  sort 
of  person  perhaps  it  would  not  be  quite  nice  for  me  to 
go  and  meet  him  without  any  one  knowing.  But  there 
is  nothing  of  that  sort.  He  was  quite  different  the 
first  day.  But  I  think  then  he  was  off  his  guard  and 
could  not  help  himself.  I  don't  know  quite  what  I 
meant  by  that.  But,  anyway,  I  am  sure  he  is  as  good 
as  gold,  and  that  is  such  a  comfort.  I  revere  him.  I 
believe  he  is  really  noble  and  unselfish,  and  so  few  men 
are,  alas!" 

,  The  noble  and  unselfish  Vernon  meanwhile  was 
quite  happy.  His  picture  was  going  splendidly,  and 
every  morning  he  woke  to  the  knowledge  that  his  image 
filled  all  the  thoughts  of  a  good  little  girl  with  gray 
'dark  charming  eyes  and  a  face  that  reminded  one  of  a 
pretty  kitten.  Her  drawing  was  not  half  bad  either. 
He  was  spared  the  mortifying  labour  of  trying  to  make 
a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.  In  one  of  his  arts  as  in 
the  other  he  decided  that  she  had  talent.  And  it  was 
pleasant  that  to  him  should  have  fallen  the  task  of 
teacher  in  both  departments.  Those  who  hunt  the  fox 


38  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

will  tell  you  that  Reynard  enjoys,  equally  with  the 
hounds  and  their  masters,  the  pleasures  of  the  chase. 
Vernon  was  quite  of  this  opinion  in  regard  to  his  fa- 
vourite sport.  He  really  felt  that  he  gave  as  much 
pleasure  as  he  took.  And  his  own  forgettings  were  so 
easy  that  the  easy  forgetting  of  others  seemed  a  fore- 
gone conclusion.  His  forgetting  always  came  first, 
that  was  all.  But  now,  the  Spring,  her  charm  and  his 
own  firm  parti  pris  working  together,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  never  forget  Betty,  could  never  wish  to 
forget  her. 

Her  pretty  conscious  dignity  charmed  him.  He  stood 
still  to  look  at  it.  He  took  no  step  forward.  His  role 
was  that  of  the  deeply  respectful  "brother  artist."  If 
his  hand  touched  hers  as  he  corrected  her  drawing,  that 
was  accident.  If,  as  he  leaned  over  her,  criticising 
her  work,  the  wind  sent  the  end  of  her  hair  against 
his  ear,  that  could  hardly  be  avoided  in  a  breezy  Eng- 
lish spring.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  the  little  thrill  It 
gave  him  was  intensified  a  hundred-fold  when,  glancing 
at  her,  he  perceived  that  her  own  ears  had  grown 
scarlet. 

Betty  went  through  her  days  in  a  dream.  There 
were  all  the  duties  she  hated — the  Mothers'  meetings, 
the  Parish  visits  when  she  tried  to  adjust  the  quarrels 
and  calm  the  jealousies  of  the  stout  aggressive  Mothers, 
the  carrying  round  the  Parish  Magazine.  There  were 
no  long  hours,  now.  In  every  spare  moment  she  worked 
at  her  drawing  to  please  him.  It  was  the  least  she 
could  do,  after  all  his  kindness. 

Her  step- father  surprised  her  once  hard  at  work  with 
charcoal  and  board  and  plumb-line,  a  house-maid  pos- 
ing for  her  with  a  broom.  He  congratulated  himself 
that  his  little  sermon  on  the  advantages  of  occupation 


39 

as  a  cure  for  discontent  had  borne  fruit  so  speedy  and 
so  sound. 

"Dear  child,  she  only  wanted  a  word  in  season,"  he 
thought.  And  he  said: 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  put  away  vain 
dreams,  Lizzie.  And  your  labours  will  not  be  thrown 
away,  either.  If  you  go  on  taking  pains  I  daresay  you 
will  be  able  to  paint  some  nice  blotting-books  and 
screens  for  the  School  Bazaar." 

"I  daresay/'  said  Betty,  adding  between  her  teeth, 
"If  you  only  knew !" 

"But  we  mustn't  keep  Letitia  from  her  work,"  he 
added,  vaguely  conscientious.  Leiitia  flounced  off,  and 
Betty,  his  back  turned,  tore  up  the  drawing. 

And,  as  a  beautiful  background  to  the  gross  realism 
of  Mothers'  meetings  and  Parish  tiresomenesses,  was 
always  the  atmosphere  of  the  golden  mornings,  the  dew 
and  the  stillness,  the  gleam  of  his  white  coat  among 
the  pine-trees.  For  he  was  always  first  at  the  tryst 
now. 

Betty  was  drunk;  and  she  was  too  young  to  distin- 
guish between  vintages.  When  she  had  been  sober  she 
had  feared  intoxication.  Now  she  was  drunk,  she 

thanked  Heaven  that  she  was  sober. 

***** 


CHAPTER  IV. 

INVOLUNTARY. 

Six  days  of  sunlight  and  clear  air,  of  mornings  as 
enchanting  as  dreams,  of  dreams  as  full  of  magic  as 
May  mornings.  Then  an  interminable  Sunday  hot  and 
sultry,  with  rolling  purple  clouds  and  an  evening  of 
thunder  and  heavy  showers.  A  magenta  sunset,  a 
night  working,  hidden  in  its  own  darkness,  its  own 
secret  purposes,  and  a  Monday  morning  gray  beyond 
belief,  with  a  soft  steady  rain. 

Betty  stood  for  full  five  minutes  looking  out  at  the 
straight  fine  fall,  at  the  white  mist  spread  on  the  lawn, 
the  blue  mist  twined  round  the  trees,  listening  to  the 
plash  of  the  drops  that  gathered  and  fell  from  the  big 
wet  ivy  leaves,  to  the  guggle  of  the  water-spout,  the 
hiss  of  smitten  gravel. 

"He'll  never  go,"  she  thought,  and  her  heart  sank. 

He,  shaving,  in  the  chill  damp  air  by  his  open  dimity- 
'draped  window,  was  saying : 

"She'll  be  there,  of  course.  Women  are  all  perfectly 
insensible  to  weather." 

Two  mackintoshed  figures  met  in  the  circle  of 
pines. 

"You  have  come,"  he  said.  "I  never  dreamed  you 
would.  How  cold  your  hand  is !" 

He  held  it  for  a  moment  warmly  clasped. 

"I  thought  it  might  stop  any  minute,"  said  Betty; 
"it  seemed  a  pity  to  waste  a  morning." 

40 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  41 

"Yes,"  he  said  musingly,  "it  would  be  a  pity  to  waste 
a  morning.  I  would  not  waste  one  of  these  mornings 
for  a  kingdom." 

Betty  fumbled  with  her  sketching  things  as  a  sort 
of  guarantee  of  good  faith. 

"But  it's  too  wet  to  work,"  said  she.  "I  suppose  I'd 
better  go  home  again." 

"That  seems  a  dull  idea — for  me,"  he  said;  "it's 
very  selfish,  of  course,  but  I'm  rather  sad  this  morning. 
Won't  you  stay  a  little  and  cheer  me  up?" 

Betty  asked  nothing  better.  But  even  to  her  a  tete-a- 
tete  in  a  wood,  with  rain  pattering  and  splashing  on 
leaves  and  path  and  resonant  mackintoshes,  seemed  to 
demand  some  excuse. 

"I  should  think  breakfast  and  being  dry  would  cheer 
you  up  better  than  anything,"  said  she.  "And  it's  very 
wet  here." 

"Hang  breakfast !  But  you're  right  about  the  wet- 
ness. There's  a  shed  in  the  field  yonder.  A  harrow 
and  a  plough  live  there;  they're  sure  to  be  at  home 
on  a  day  like  this.  Let's  go  and  ask  for  their  hospi- 
tality." 

"I  hope  they'll  be  nice  to  us,"  laughed  Betty;  "it's 
dreadful  to  go  where  you're  not  wanted." 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  asked,  laughing  too. 
"Come,  give  me  your  hand  and  let's  run  for  it." 

They  ran,  hand  in  hand,  the  wet  mackintoshes  flap- 
ping and  slapping  about  their  knees,  and  drew  up 
laughing  and  breathless  in  the  dry  quiet  of  the  shed. 
Vernon  thought  of  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham,  but  it 
was  not  the  moment  to  say  so. 

"See,  they  are  quite  pleased  to  see  us,"  said  he,  "they 
don't  say  a  word  against  our  sheltering  here.  The 
plough  looks  a  bit  glum,  but  she'll  grow  to  like  us  pres- 


42  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

ently.  As  for  harrow,  look  how  he's  smiling  welcome 
at  you  with  all  his  teeth." 

"I'm  glad  he  can't  come  forward  to  welcome  us," 
said  Betty.  "His  teeth  look  very  fierce." 

"He  could,  of  course,  only  he's  enchanted.  He  used 
to  be  able  to  move  about,  but  now  he's  condemned  to 
sit  still  and  only  smile  till — till  he  sees  two  perfectly 
happy  people.  Are  you  perfectly  happy?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Betty  truly.     "Are  you?" 

"No — not  quite  perfectly." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Betty.  "I  shouldn't  like  the 
harrow  to  begin  to  move  while  we're  here.  I'm  sure  it 
would  bite  us." 

He  sighed  and  looked  grave.  "So  you  don't  want 
me  to  be  perfectly  happy?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  head  on  one  side. 

"Not  here,"  she  said.     "I  can't  trust  that  harrow." 

His  eyelids  narrowed  over  his  eyes — then  relaxed. 
No,  she  was  merely  playing  at  enchanted  harrows. 

"Are  you  cold  still  ?"  he  asked,  and  reached  for  her 
hand.  She  gave  it  frankly. 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  said,  and  took  it  away  again.  "The 
run  warmed  me.  In  fact — " 

She  unbuttoned  the  mackintosh  and  spread  it  on  the 
bar  of  the  plough  and  sat  down.  Her  white  dress 
lighted  up  the  shadows  of  the  shed.  Outside  the  rain 
fell  steadily. 

"May  I  sit  down  too?  Can  Mrs.  Plough  find  room 
for  two  children  on  her  lap?" 

She  drew  aside  the  folds  of  her  dress,  but  even  then 
only  a  little  space  was  left.  The  plough  had  been  care- 
lessly housed  and  nearly  half  of  it  was  where  the  rain 
drove  in  on  it.  So  that  they  were  very  close  together. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  43 

So  close  that  he  had  to  throw  his  head  back  to  see 
clearly  how  the  rain  had  made  the  short  hair  curl  round 
her  forehead  and  ears,  and  how  fresh  were  the  tints  of 
face  and  lips.  Also  he  had  to  support  himself  by  an 
arm  stretched  out  behind  her.  His  arm  was  not  round 
her,  but  it  might  just  as  well  have  been,  as  far  as  the 
look  of  the  thing  went.  He  thought  of  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Lewisham. 

"Did  you  ever  have  your  fortune  told?"  he  asked. 

"No,  never.  I've  always  wanted  to,  but  Father 
hates  gipsies.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  put 
on  my  best  clothes,  and  go  out  into  the  lanes  and  sit 
about  and  hope  the  gipsies  would  steal  me,  but  they 
never  did." 

"They're  a  degenerate  race,  blind  to  their  own  in- 
terests. But  they  haven't  a  monopoly  of  chances — for- 
tunately." His  eyes  were  on  her  face. 

"I  never  had  my  fortune  told,"  said  Betty.  "I'd 
love  it,  but  I  think  I  should  be  afraid,  all  the  same. 
Something  might  come  true." 

Vernon  was  more  surprised  than  he  had  ever  been  in 
his  life  at  the  sudden  involuntary  movement  in  his  right 
arm.  It  cost  him  a  conscious  effort  not  to  let  the  arm 
follow  its  inclination  and  fall  across  her  slender  shoul- 
ders, while  he  should  say: 

"Your  fortune  is  that  I  love  you.  Is  it  good  or  bad 
fortune?" 

He  braced  the  muscles  of  his  arm,  and  kept  it  where 
it  was.  That  sudden  unreasonable  impulse  was  a  mor- 
tification, an  insult  to  the  man  whose  pride  it  was  to  be- 
lieve that  his  impulses  were  always  planned. 

"I  can  tell  fortunes,"  he  said.  "When  I  was  a  boy 
I  spent  a  couple  of  months  with  some  gipsies.  They 
taught  me  lots  of  things." 


44  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

His  memory,  excellently  trained,  did  not  allow  itself 
to  dwell  for  an  instant  on  his  reason  for  following 
those  gipsies,  on  the  dark-eyed  black-haired  girl  with 
the  skin  like  pale  amber,  who  had  taught  him,  by  the 
flicker  of  the  camp-fire,  the  lines  of  head  and  heart  and 
life,  and  other  things  beside.  Oh,  but  many  other 
things  1  That  was  before  he  became  an  artist.  He  was 
only  an  amateur  in  those  days. 

"Did  they  teach  you  how  to  tell  fortunes — really  and 
truly?"  asked  Betty.  "We  had  a  fortune-teller's  tent 
at  the  School  Bazaar  last  year,  and  the  youngest  Smith- 
son  girl  dressed  up  in  spangles  and  a  red  dress  and 
said  she  was  Zara,  the  Eastern  Mystic  Hand-Reader, 
and  Foreteller  of  the  Future.  But  she  got  it  all  out  of 
Napoleon's  Book  of  Fate." 

"I  don't  get  my  fortune-telling  out  of  anybody's 
book  of  anything,"  he  said.  "I  get  it  out  of  people's 
hands,  and  their  faces.  Some  people's  faces  are  their 
fortunes,  you  know." 

"I  know  they  are,"  she  said  a  little  sadly,  "but 
everybody's  got  a  hand  and  a  fortune,  whether  they've 
got  that  sort  of  fortune-face  or  not." 

"But  the  fortunes  of  the  fortune-faced  people  are 
the  ones  one  likes  best  to  tell." 

"Of  course,"  she  admitted  wistfully,  "but  what's 
going  to  happen  to  you  is  just  as  interesting  to 
you,  even  if  your  face  isn't  interesting  to  anybody.  Do 
you  always  tell  fortunes  quite  truly;  I  mean  do  you 
follow  the  real  rules?  or  do  you  make  up  pretty  for- 
tunes for  the  people  with  the  pretty  fortune-faces." 

"There's  no  need  to  'make  up.'  The  pretty  fortunes 
are  always  there  for  the  pretty  fortune- faces :  unless 
of  course  the  hand  contradicts  the  face." 

"But  can  it?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  45 

"Can't  it?  There  may  be  a  face  that  all  the  beauti- 
ful things  in  the  world  are  promised  to:  just  by  being 
so  beautiful  itself  it  draws  beautiful  happenings  to  it. 
But  if  the  hand  contradicts  the  face,  if  the  hand  is  one 
of  those  narrow  niggardly  distrustful  hands,  one  of 
the  hands  that  will  give  nothing  and  take  nothing,  a 
hand  without  courage,  without  generosity — well  then 
one  might  as  well  be  born  without  a  fortune-face,  for 
any  good  it  will  ever  do  one." 

"Then  you  don't  care  to  tell  fortunes  for  people  who 
haven't  fortune  faces?" 

"I  should  like  to  tell  yours,  if  you  would  let  me. 
Shall  I?" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  her  hand  was  withheld. 

"I  ought  to  cross  your  hand  with  silver,  oughtn't 
I?"  she  asked. 

"It's  considered  correct — 'but — " 

"Oh,  don't  let's  neglect  any  proper  precaution,"  she 
said.  "I  haven't  got  any  money.  Tell  it  me  to-mor- 
row, and  I  will  bring  a  sixpence." 

"You  could  cross  my  hand  with  your  watch,"  he  said, 
"and  I  could  take  the  crossing  as  an  I.  O.  U.  of  the 
sixpence." 

She  detached  the  old  watch.  He  held  out  his  hand 
and  she  gravely  traced  a  cross  on  it. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "all  preliminary  formalities  being 
complied  with,  let  the  prophet  do  his  work.  Give  me 
your  hand,  pretty  lady,  and  the  old  gipsy  will  tell  you 
your  fortune  true." 

He  held  the  hand  in  his,  bending  back  the  pink  fin- 
ger-tips with  his  thumb,  and  looked  earnestly  at  its 
lines.  Then  he  looked  in  her  face,  longer  than  he  had 
ever  permitted  himself  to  look.  He  looked  till  her  eyes 
fell.  It  was  a  charming  picture.  He  was  tall,  strong, 


46 

well-built  and  quite  as  good-looking  as  a  clever  man 
has  any  need  to  be.  And  she  was  as  pretty  as  any 
oleograph  of  them  all. 

It  seemed  a  thousand  pities  that  there  should  be  no 
witness  to  such  a  well-posed  tableau,  no  audience  to 
such  a  charming  scene.  The  pity  of  it  struck  Destiny, 
and  Destiny  flashed  the  white  of  Betty's  dress,  a  shrill 
point  of  light,  into  an  eye  a  hundred  yards  away.  The 
eye's  owner,  with  true  rustic  finesse,  drew  back  into 
the  wood's  shadow,  shaded  one  eye  with  a  brown  rustic 
hand,  looked  again,  and  began  a  detour  which  landed 
the  rustic  boots,  all  silently,  behind  the  shed,  at  a  spot 
where  a  knot-hole  served  as  frame  for  the  little  pic- 
ture. The  rustic  eye  was  fitted  to  the  knot-hole  while 
Vernon  holding  Betty's  hand  gazed  in  Betty's  face,  and 
decided  that  this  was  no  time  to  analyse  his  sensa- 
tions. 

Neither  heard  the  furtive  rustic  tread,  or  noted  the 
gleam  of  the  pale  rustic  eye. 

The  labourer  shook  his  head  as  he  hurried  quickly 
away.  He  had  daughters  of  his  own,  and  the  Rector 
had  been  kind  when  one  of  those  daughters  had  sud- 
denly come  home  from  service,  ill,  and  with  no  prospect 
of  another  place. 

"A-holdin'  of  hands  and  a-castin'  of  sheep's  eyes," 
said  he.  "We  knows  what  that's  the  beginnings  of! 
Well,  well,  youth's  the  season  for  silliness,  but  there's 
bounds — there's  bounds.  And  all  of  a  mornin'  so  early 
too.  Lord  above  knows  what  it  wouldn't  be  like  of  a 
evenin'."  He  shook  his  head  again,  and  made  haste. 

Vernon  had  forced  his  eyes  to  leave  the  face  of 
Betty. 

"Your  fortune,"  he  was  saying,  "is,  curiously 
enough,  just  one  of  those  fortunes  I  was  speaking  of. 


47 

You  will  have  great  chances  of  happiness,  if  you  have 
the  courage  to  take  them.  You  will  cross  the  sea. 
You've  never  travelled,  have  you?" 

"No, — never  further  than  Torquay;  I  was  at  school 
there,  you  know ;  and  London,  of  course.  But  I  should 
love  it.  Isn't  it  horrid  to  think  that  one  might  grow 
quite  old  and  never  have  been  anywhere  or  done  any- 
thing?" 

"That  depends  on  oneself,  doesn't  it?  Adventures 
are  to  the  adventurous." 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  well — girls  can't  be  adventur- 
ous." 

"Yes, — it's  the  Prince  who  sets  out  to  seek  his  for- 
tune, isn't  it?  The  Princess  has  to  sit  at  home  and 
wait  for  hers  to  come  to  her.  It  generally  does  if  she's 
a  real  Princess." 

"But  half  the  fun  must  be  the  seeking  for  it,"  said 
Betty. 

"You're  right,"  said  he,  "it  is." 

The  labourer  had  reached  the  park-gate.  His  pace 
had  quickened  to  the  quickening  remembrance  of  his 
own  daughter,  sitting  at  home  silent  and  sullen. 

"Do  you  really  see  it  in  my  hand?"  asked  Betty, — 
"about  my  crossing  the  sea,  I  mean." 

"It's  there;  but  it  depends  on  yourself,  like  every- 
thing else." 

"I  did  ask  my  step-father  to  let  me  go,"  she  said, 
"after  that  first  day,  you  know,  when  you  said  I  ought 
to  study  in  Paris." 

"And  he  wouldn't,  of  course?" 

"No;  he  said  Paris  was  a  wicked  place.  It  isn't 
really,  is  it?" 

"Every  place  is  wicked,"  said  he,  "and  every  place 
is  good.  It's  all  as  one  takes  things." 


48  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

The  Rectory  gate  clicked  sharply  as  it  swung  to  be- 
hind "the  labourer.  The  Rectory  gravel  scrunched  be- 
neath the  labourer's  boots. 

Yes,  the  Master  was  up ;  he  could  be  seen. 

The  heavy  boots  were  being  rubbed  against  the 
birch  broom  that,  rooted  at  Kentish  back  doors,  stands 
to  receive  on  its  purple  twigs  the  scrapings  of  Kentish 
clay  from  rustic  feet. 

"You  have  the  artistic  lines  very  strongly  marked," 
Vernon  was  saying.  "One,  two,  three — yes,  painting 
— music  perhaps  ?" 

"I  am  very  fond  of  music,"  said  Betty,  thinking  of 
the  hour's  daily  struggle  with  the  Mikado  and  the 
Moonlight  Sonata.  "But  three  arts.  What  could  the 
third  one  be?"  Her  thoughts  played  for  an  instant 
with  unheard-of  triumphs  achieved  behind  footlights — 
rapturous  applause,  showers  of  bouquets. 

"Whatever  it  is,  you've  enormous  talent  for  it,"  he 
said ;  "you'll  find  out  what  it  is  in  good  time.  Perhaps 
it'll  be  something  much  more  important  than  the  other 
two  put  together,  and  perhaps  you've  got  even  more 
talent  for  it  than  you  have  for  others." 

"But  there  isn't  any  other  talent  that  I  can  think  of." 

"I  can  think  of  a  few.  There's  the  stage, — but 
it's  not  that,  I  fancy,  or  not  exactly  that.  There's  lit- 
erature— confess  now,  don't  you  write  poetry  some- 
times when  you're  all  alone  at  night?  Then  there's  the 
art  of  being  amusing,  and  the  art  of  being — of  being 
liked." 

"Shall  I  be  successful  in  any  of  the  arts?" 

"In  one,  certainly." 

"Ah,"  said  Betty,  "if  I  could  only  go  to  Paris !" 

"It's  not  always  necessary  to  go  to  Paris  for  success 
in  one's  art,"  he  said. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          49 

"But  I  want  to  go.  I'm  sure  I  could  do  better  there." 

"Aren't  you  satisfied  with  your  present  Master?" 

"Oh!" — It  was  a  cry  of  genuine  distress,  of  heart- 
felt disclaim.  "You  know  I  didn't  mean  that!  But 
you  won't  always  be  here,  and  when  you've  gone — why 
then—" 

Again  he  had  to  control  the  involuntary  movement 
of  his  left  arm. 

"But  I'm  not  going  for  months  yet.  Don't  let  us 
cross  a  bridge  till  we  come  to  it.  Your  head-line 
promises  all  sorts  of  wonderful  things.  And  your  heart- 
line — "  he  turned  her  hand  more  fully  to  the  light. 

In  the  Rector's  study  the  labourer  was  speaking, 
standing  shufflingly  on  the  margin  of  the  Turkey  car- 
pet. The  Rector  listened,  his  hand  on  an  open  folio 
where  fat  infants  peered  through  the  ornamental  ini- 
tials. 

"And  so  I  come  straight  up  to  you,  Sir,  me  being  a 
father  and  you  the  same,  Sir,  for  all  the  difference  be- 
twixt our  ways  in  life.  Says  I  to  myself,  says  I,  and 
bitter  hard  I  feels  it  too,  I  says :  'George/  says  I,  'you've 
got  a  daughter  as  begun  that  way,  not  a  doubt  of  it — 
holdin'  of  hands  and  sittin'  close  alongside,  and  you 
know  what's  come  to  her !' ' 

The  Rector  shivered  at  the  implication. 

"Then  I  says,  says  I :  'Like  as  not  the  Rector  won't 
thank  you  for  interferin'.  Least  said  soonest  mended/ 
says  I." 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  Rector 
difficultly,  and  his  hand  shook  on  Ambrosius's  yellow 
page. 

"You  see,  Sir,"  the  man's  tone  held  all  that  deferent 
apology  that  truth  telling  demands,  "gells  is  gells,  be 
they  never  so  up  in  the  world,  all  the  world  over,  bless 


5o  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

their  hearts ;  and  young  men  is  young  men,  d — n  them, 
asking  your  pardon,  Sir,  I'm  sure,  but  the  word  slipped 
out.  And  I  shouldn't  ha'  been  easy  if  anything  had 
have  gone  wrong  with  Miss,  God  bless  her,  all  along  of 
the  want  of  a  word  in  season.  Asking  your  pardon, 
Sir,  but  even  young  ladies  is  flesh  and  blood,  when  it 
comes  to  the  point.  Ain't  they  now  ?"  he  ended  appeal- 
ingly. 

The  Rector  spoke  with  an  obvious  effort,  got  his 
hand  off  the  page  and  closed  the  folio. 

"You've  done  quite  right,  George,"  he  said,  "and 
I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you.  Only  I  do  ask  you  to  keep 
this  to  yourself.  You  wouldn't  have  liked  it  if  people 
had  heard  a  thing  like  that  about  your  Ruby  before — I 
mean  when  she  was  at  home." 

He  replaced  the  two  folios  on  the  shelf. 

"Not  me,  Sir,"  George  answered.  "I'm  mum,  I  do 
assure  you,  Sir.  And  if  I  might  make  so  bold,  you  just 
pop  on  your  hat  and  step  acrost  directly  minute.  There's 
that  little  hole  back  of  the  shed  what  I  told  you  of.  You 
ain't  only  got  to  pop  your  reverend  eye  to  that  there, 
and  you'll  see  for  yourself  as  I  ain't  give  tongue  for  no, 
dragged  scent." 

"Thank  you,  George,"  said  the  Rector,  "I  will.  Good 
morning.  God  bless  you." 

The  formula  came  glibly,  but  it  was  from  the  lips 
only  that  it  came. 

Lizzie — his  white  innocent  Lily-girl!  In  a  shed — 
a  man,  a  stranger,  holding  her  hand,  his  arm  around 
her,  his  eyes — his  lips  perhaps,  daring — 

The  Rector  was  half  way  down  his  garden  drive. 

"Your  heart-line,"  Vernon  was  saying,  "it's  a  little 
difficult.  You  will  be  deeply  beloved." 

To  have  one's  fortune  told  is  disquieting.    To  keep 


THE  INCOMPLETE   AMORIST          51 

silence  during  the  telling  deepens  the  disquiet  curi- 
ously. It  seemed  good  to  Betty  to  laugh. 

"Soldier,  sailor,  tinker,  tailor,"  she  said,  "which  am 
I  going  to  marry,  kind  gipsy?" 

"I  don't  believe  the  gipsies  who  say  they  can  see 
marriage  in  a  hand,"  he  answered  gravely,  and  Betty 
feared  he  had  thought  her  flippant,  or  even  vulgar; 
"what  one  sees  are  not  the  shadows  of  coming  conven- 
tions. One  sees  the  great  emotional  events,  the  things 
that  change  and  mould  and  develop  character.  Yes, 
you  will  be  greatly  beloved,  and  you  will  love  deeply." 

"I'm  not  to  be  happy  in  my  affairs  of  the  heart  then." 
Still  a  careful  flippancy  seemed  best  to  Betty. 

"Did  I  say  so?  Do  you  really  think  that  there  are 
no  happy  love  affairs  but  those  that  end  in  a  wedding 
breakfast  and  bridesmaids,  with  a  Bazaar  show  of 
hideous  silver  and  still  more  hideous  crockery,  and  all 
one's  relations  assembled  to  dissect  one's  most  sacred 
secrets  ?" 

Betty  had  thought  so,  but  it  seemed  coarse  to  own  it. 

"Can't  you  imagine,"  he  went  on  dreamily,  "a  love 
affair  so  perfect  that  it  could  not  but  lose  its  finest  fra- 
grance if  the  world  were  called  to  watch  the  plucking 
of  love's  flower  ?  Can't  you  imagine  a  love  so  great,  so 
deep,  so  tender,  so  absolutely  possessing  the  whole  life 
of  the  lover  that  he  would  almost  grudge  any  manifes- 
tation of  it  ?  Because  such  a  manifestation  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  repetition  of  some  of  the  ways  in  which  un- 
worthy loves  have  been  manifested,  by  less  happy 
lovers?  I  can  seem  to  see  that  one  might  love  the  one 
love  of  a  life-time,  and  be  content  to  hold  the  treasure 
in  one's  heart,  a  treasure  such  as  no  other  man  ever 


52          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

had,  and  grudge  even  a  word  or  a  look  that  might 
make  it  less  the  single  perfect  rose  of  the  world." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Betty  to  herself. 

"But  I'm  talking  like  a  book,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 
"I  always  get  dreamy  and  absurd  when  I  tell  fortunes. 
Anyway,  as  I  said  before,  you  will  be  greatly  beloved. 
Indeed,  unless  your  hand  is  very  untruthful,  which  I'm 
sure  it  never  could  be,  you  are  beloved  now,  far  more 
than  you  can  possibly  guess." 

Betty  caught  at  her  flippancy  but  it  evaded  her,  and 
all  she  found  to  say  was,  "Oh,"  and  her  eyes  fell. 

There  was  a  silence.  Vernon  still  held  her  hand,  but 
he  was  no  longer  looking  at  it. 

A  black  figure  darkened  the  daylight. 

The  two  on  the  plough  started  up — started  apart. 
Nothing  more  was  wanted  to  convince  the  Rector  of 
all  that  he  least  wished  to  believe. 

"Go  home,  Lizzie,"  he  said,  "go  to  your  room,"  and 
to  her  his  face  looked  the  face  of  a  fiend.  It  is  hard 
to  control  the  muscles  under  a  sudden  emotion  com- 
pounded of  sorrow,  sympathy  and  an  immeasurable 
pity.  "Go  to  your  room  and  stay  there  till  I  send  for 
you." 

Betty  went,  like  a  beaten  dog. 

The  Rector  turned  to  the  young  man. 

"Now,  Sir,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V- 
THE  PRISONER. 

When  Vernon  looked  back  on  that  interview  he  was 
honestly  pleased  with  himself.  He  had  been  patient, 
he  had  been  'kind  even.  In  the  end  he  'had  been  posi- 
tively chivalrous.  He  had  hardly  allowed  himself  to 
be  ruffled  for  an  instant,  but  had  met  the  bitter  flow  of 
Mr.  Underwood's  biblical  language  with  perfect  cour- 
tesy. 

He  regretted,  of  course,  deeply,  this  unfortunate 
misunderstanding.  Accident  had  made  him  acquainted 
with  Miss  Desmond's  talent,  he  had  merely  offered  her 
a  little  of  that  help  which  between  brother  artists — 
The  well-worn  phrase  had  not  for  the  Rector  the  charm 
it  had  had  for  Betty. 

The  Rector  spoke  again,  and  Mr.  Vernon  listened, 
bare-headed,  in  deepest  deference. 

No,  he  had  not  been  holding  Miss  Desmond's  hand 
— he  had  merely  been  telling  her  fortune.  No  one 
could  regret  more  profoundly  than  he, — and  so  on.  He 
was  much  Wounded  by  Mr.  Underwood's  unworthy 
suspicions. 

The  Rector  ran  through  a  few  texts.  His  pulpit  de- 
nunciations of  iniquity,  though  always  earnest,  had 
lacked  this  eloquence. 

Vernon  listened  quietly. 

"I  can  only  express  my  regret  that  my  thoughtless- 

53 


54          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

ness  should  have  annoyed  you,  and  beg  you  not  to 
blame  Miss  Desmond.  It  was  perhaps  a  little  uncon- 
ventional, but — " 

"Unconventional — to  try  to  ruin — " 

Mr.  Vernon  held  up  his  hand:  he  was  genuinely 
shocked. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  hear  such  words 
in  connection  with — with  a  lady  for  whom  I  have  the 
deepest  respect.  You  are  heated  now,  Sir,  and  I  can 
make  every  allowance  for  your  natural  vexation.  But 
I  must  ask  you  not  to  overstep  the  bounds  of  decency." 

The  Rector  bit  his  lip,  and  Vernon  went  on : 

"I  have  listened  to  your  abuse — yes,  your  abuse — 
without  defending  myself,  but  I  can't  allow  anyone, 
even  her  father,  to  say  a  word  against  her." 

"I  am  not  her  father,"  said  the  old  man  bitterly. 
And  on  the  instant  Vernon  understood  him  as  Betty 
had  never  done.  The  young  man's  tone  changed  in- 
stantly. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  and  his  face  grew  almost  boy- 
ish, "I  am  really  most  awfully  sorry.  The  whole  thing 
— what  there  is  of  it,  and  it's  very  little — was  entirely 
my  doing.  It  was  inexcusably  thoughtless.  Miss  Des- 
mond is  very  young  and  very  innocent.  It  is  I  who 
ought  to  have  known  better, — and  perhaps  I  did.  But 
the  country  is  very  dull,  and  it  was  a  real  pleasure  to 
teach  so  apt  a  pupil." 

.He  spoke  eagerly,  and  the  ring  of  truth  was  in  his 
voice.  But  the  Rector  felt  that  he  was  listening  to  the 
excuses  of  a  serpent. 

"Then  you'd  have  me  believe  that  you  don't  even 
love  her?" 

"No  more  than  she  does  me,"  said  Vernon  very 
truly.  "I've  never  breathed  a  word  of  love  to  her,"  he 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  55 

went  on ;  "such  an  idea  never  entered  our  heads.  She's 
a  charming  girl,  and  I  admire  her  immensely,  but — " 
he  sought  hastily  for  a  weapon,  and  defended  Betty 
with  the  first  that  came  to  hand,  "I  am  already  engaged 
to  another  lady.  It  is  entirely  as  an  artist  that  I  am 
interested  in  Miss  Betty." 

"Serpent,"  said  the  Rector  within  himself,  "Lying 
serpent !" 

Vernon  was  addressing  himself  silently  in  terms  not 
more  flattering.  "Fool,  idiot,  brute  to  let  the  child  in 
for  this ! — for  it's  going  to  be  a  hell  of  a  time  for  her, 
anyhow.  And  as  for  me — well,  the  game  is  up,  abso- 
lutely up!" 

"I  am  really  most  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  again. 

"I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  your 
repentance,"  said  the  Rector  frowning. 

"My  regret  you  may  believe  in,"  said  Vernon  stiffly. 
"There  is  no  ground  for  even  the  mention  of  such  a 
word  as  repentance." 

"If  your  repentance  is  sincere" — he  underlined  the 
word — "you  will  leave  Long  Barton  to-day." 

Leave  without  a  word,  a  sign  from  Betty — a  word  or 
a  sign  to  her?  It  might  be  best — if — 

"I  will  go,  Sir,  if  you  will  let  me  have  your  assurance 
that  you  will  say  nothing  to  Miss  Desmond,  that  you 
won't  make  her  unhappy,  that  you'll  let  the  whole  mat- 
ter drop." 

"I  will  make  no  bargains  with  you!"  cried  the  Rec- 
tor. "Do  your  worst!  Thank  God  I  can  defend  her 
from  you!" 

"She  needs  no  defence.  It's  not  I  who  am  lacking  in 
respect  and  consideration  for  her,"  said  Vernon  a  lit- 
tle hotly,  "but,  as  I  say,  I'll  go — if  you'll  just  promise 
to  be  gentle  with  her." 


56  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I  do  not  need  to  be  taught  my  duty  by  a  villain, 
Sir! — "  The  old  clergyman  was  trembling  with  rage. 
"I  wish  to  God  I  were  a  younger  man,  that  I  might 
chastise  you  for  the  hound  you  are."  His  upraised 
cane  shook  in  his  hand.  "Words  are  thrown  away  on 
you!  I'm  sorry  I  can't  use  the  only  arguments  that 
can  come  home  to  a  puppy !" 

"If  you  were  a  younger  man,"  said  Vernon  slowly, 
"your  words  would  not  have  been  thrown  away  on  me. 
They  would  have  had  the  answer  they  deserved.  I 
shall  not  leave  Long  Barton,  and  I  shall  see  Miss  Des- 
mond when  and  how  I  choose." 

"Long  Barton  shall  know  you  in  your  true  character, 
Sir,  I  promise  you." 

"So  you  would  blacken  her  to  blacken  me?  One 
sees  how  it  is  that  she  does  not  love  her  father." 

He  meant  to  be  cruel,  but  it  was  not  till  he  saw  the 
green  shadows  round  the  old  man's  lips  that  he  knew 
just  how  cruel  he  had  been.  The  quivering  old  mouth 
opened  and  closed  and  opened,  the  cold  eyes  gleamed. 
And  the  trembling  hand  in  one  nervous  movement 
raised  the  cane  and  struck  the  other  man  sharply  across 
the  face.  It  was  a  hysterical  blow,  like  a  woman's,  and 
with  it  the  tears  sprang  to  the  faded  eyes. 

Then  it  was  that  Vernon  behaved  well.  When  he 
thought  of  it  afterwards  he  decided  that  he  had  be- 
haved astonishingly  well. 

With  the  smart  of  that  cut  stinging  on  his  flesh,  the 
mark  of  it  rising  red  and  angry  across  his  cheek,  he 
stepped  back  a  pace,  and  without  a  word,  without  a  re- 
taliatory movement,  without  even  a  change  of  facial 
expression  he  executed  the  most  elaborately  courteous 
bow,  as  of  one  treading  a  minuet,  recovered  the  upright 
and  walked  away  bareheaded.  The  old  clergyman  was 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  57 

left  planted  there,  the  cane  still  jigging  up  and  down 
in  his  shaking  hand. 

"A  little  theatrical,  perhaps,"  mused  Vernon,  when 
the  cover  of  the  wood  gave  him  leave  to  lay  his  fingers 
to  his  throbbing  cheek,  "but  nothing  could  have  an- 
noyed the  old  chap  more." 

However  effective  it  may  be  to  turn  the  other  cheek, 
the  turning  of  it  does  not  cool  one's  passions,  and  he 
walked  through  the  wood  angrier  than  he  ever  remem- 
bered being.  But  the  cool  rain  dripping  from  the  hazel 
and  sweet  chestnut  leaves  fell  pleasantly  on  his  uncov- 
ered head  and  flushed  face.  Before  he  was  through  the 
wood  he  was  able  to  laugh,  and  the  laugh  was  a  real 
laugh,  if  rather  a  rueful  one.  Vernon  could  never  keep 
angry  very  long. 

"Poor  old  devil !"  he  said.  "He'll  have  to  put  a  spe- 
cial clause  in  the  general  confession  next  Sunday.  Poor 
old  devil!  And  poor  little  Betty!  And  poorest  me! 
Because,  however,  we  look  at  it,  and  however  we  may 
have  damn  well  bluffed  over  it,  the  game  is  up — abso- 
lutely up." 

When  one  has  a  definite  end  in  view — marriage,  let 
us  say,  or  an  elopement, — secret  correspondences,  the 
surmounting  of  garden  walls,  the  bribery  of  servants, 
are  in  the  picture.  But  in  a  small  sweet  idyll,  with  no 
backbone  of  intention  to  it,  these  things  are  inartistic. 
And  Vernon  was,  above  and  before  all,  an  artist.  He 
must  go  away  and  he  knew  it.  And  his  picture  was  not 
finished.  Could  he  possibly  leave  that  incomplete? 
The  thought  pricked  sharply.  He  had  not  made  much 
progress  with  the  picture  in  these  last  days.  It  had 
been  pleasanter  to  work  at  the  portrait  of  Betty.  If  he 
moved  to  the  next  village  ?  Yes,  that  must  be  thought 
over. 


58  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

He  spent  the  day  thinking  of  that  and  of  other 
things. 

The  Reverend  Cecil  Underwood  stood  where  he  was 
left  till  the  man  he  had  struck  had  passed  out  of  sight. 
Then  the  cane  slipped  through  his  hand  and  fell  rat- 
tling to  the  ground.  He  looked  down  at  it  curiously. 
Then  he  reached  out  both  hands  vaguely  and  touched 
the  shaft  of  the  plough.  He  felt  his  way  along  it,  and 
sat  down,  where  they  had  sat,  staring  dully  before  him 
at  the  shadows  in  the  shed,  and  at  the  steady  fall  of 
the  rain  outside.  Betty's  mackintosh  was  lying  on  Hie 
floor.  He  picked  it  up  presently  and  smoothed  out  the 
creases.  Then  he  watched  the  rain  again. 

An  hour  had  passed  before  he  got  stiffly  up  and  went 
home,  with  her  cloak  on  his  arm. 

Yes,  Miss  Lizzie  was  in  her  room — had  a  headache. 
He  sent  up  her  breakfast,  arranging  the  food  himself, 
and  calling  back  the  maid  because  the  tray  lacked  mar- 
malade. 

Then  he  poured  out  his  own  tea,  and  sat  stirring  it 
till  it  was  cold. 

She  was  in  her  room,  waiting  for  him  to  send  for  her. 
He  must  send  for  her.  He  must  speak  to  her.  But 
what  could  he  say  ?  What  was  there  to  say  that  would 
not  be  a  cruelty?  What  was  there  to  ask  that  would 
not  be  a  challenge  to  her  to  lie,  as  the  serpent  had 
lied? 

"I  am  glad  I  struck  him,"  the  Reverend  Cecil  told 
himself  again  and  again;  "that  brought  it  home  to 
him.  He  was  quite  cowed.  He  could  do  nothing  but 
bow  and  cringe  away.  Yes,  I  am  glad." 

But  the  girl  ?  The  serpent  had  asked  him  to  be  gen- 
tle with  her — had  dared  to  ask  him.  He  could  think 
of  no  way  gentle  enough  for  dealing  with  this  crisis. 


THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST          59 

The  habit  of  prayer  caught  him.  He  prayed  for  guid- 
ance. 

Then  quite  suddenly  he  saw  what  to  do. 

"That  will  be  best,"  he  said;  "she  will  feel  that 
less." 

He  rang  and  ordered  the  fly  from  the  Peal  of  Bells, 
went  to  his  room  to  change  his  old  coat  for  a  better 
one,  since  appearances  must  be  kept  up,  even  if  the 
heart  be  breaking.  His  thin  hair  was  disordered,  and 
his  tie,  he  noticed,  was  oddly  crumpled,  as  though 
strange  hands  had  been  busy  with  his  throat.  He  put 
on  a  fresh  tie,  smoothed  his  hair,  and  went  down  again. 
As  he  passed,  he  lingered  a  moment  outside  her  door. 

Betty  watching  with  red  eyes  and  swollen  lips  saw 
him  enter  the  fly,  saw  him  give  an  order,  heard  the 
door  bang.  The  old  coachman  clambered  clumsily  to 
his  place,  and  the  carriage  lumbered  down  the  drive. 

"Oh,  how  cruel  he  is !  He  might  have  spoken  to  me 
now!  I  suppose  he's  going  to  keep  me  waiting  for 
days,  as  a  penance.  And  I  haven't  really  done  any- 
thing wrong.  It's  a  shame !  I've  a  good  mind  to  run 
away!" 

Running  away  required  consideration.  In  the  mean- 
time, since  he  was  out  of  the  house,  there  was  no  rea- 
son why  she  should  not  go  downstairs.  She  was  not 
a  child  to  be  kept  to  her  room  in  disgrace.  She  bathed 
her  distorted  face,  powdered  it,  and  tried  to  think  that 
the  servants,  should  they  see  her,  would  notice  nothing. 

Where  had  he  gone?  For  no  goal  within  his  parish 
would  a  hired  carriage  be  needed.  He  had  gone  to 
Sevenoaks  or  to  the  station.  Perhaps  he  had  gone  to 
Westerham — there  was  a  convent  there,  a  Protestant 
sisterhood.  Perhaps  he  was  going  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  shutting  her  up  there !  Never ! — Betty  would 


60          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST. 

die  first.  At  least  she  would  run  away  first.  But 
where  could  one  run  to? 

The  aunts?  Betty  loved  the  aunts,  but  she  distrust- 
ed their  age.  They  were  too  old  to  sympathise  really 
with  her.  They  would  most  likely  understand  as  little 
as  her  step-father  had  done.  An  Inward  Monitor  told 
Betty  that  the  story  of  the  fortune-telling,  of  the  seven 
stolen  meetings  with  no  love-making  in  them,  would 
sound  very  unconvincing  to  any  ears  but  those  of  the 
one  person  already  convinced.  But  she  would  not  be 
shut  up  in  a  convent — no,  not  by  fifty  aunts  and  a  hun- 
dred step-fathers! 

She  would  go  to  Him.  He  would  understand.  He 
was  the  only  person  who  ever  had  understood.  She 
would  go  straight  to  him  and  ask  him  what  to  do.  He 
would  advise  her.  He  was  so  clever,  so  good,  so  noble. 
Whatever  he  advised  would  be  right. 

Trembling  and  in  a  cold  white  rage  of  determina- 
tion, Betty  fastened  on  her  hat,  found  her  gloves  and 
purse.  The  mackintosh  she  remembered  had  been  left 
in  the  shed.  She  pictured  her  step-father  trampling 
fiercely  upon  it  as  he  told  Mr.  Vernon  what  he  thought 
of  him.  She  took  her  golf  cape. 

At  the  last  moment  she  hesitated.  Mr.  Vernon 
would  not  be  idle.  What  would  he  be  doing?  Sup- 
pose he  should  send  a  note?  Suppose  he  had  watched 
Mr.  Underwood  drive  away  and  should  come  boldly  up 
and  ask  for  her?  Was  it  wise  to  leave  the  house? 
But  perhaps  he  would  be  hanging  about  the  church 
yard,  or  watching  from  the  park  for  a  glimpse  of  her. 
She  would  at  least  go  out  and  see. 

"I'll  leave  a  farewell  letter,"  she  said,  "in  case  I 
never  come  back." 

She  found  her  little  blotting-book — envelopes,  but  no 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          61 

paper.  Of  course!  One  can't  with  dignity  write  cut- 
ting farewells  on  envelopes.  She  tore  a  page  from  her 
diary. 

"You  have  driven  me  to  this,"  she  wrote.  "I  am 
going  away,  and  in  time  I  shall  try  to  forgive  you  all 
the  petty  meannesses  and  cruelties  of  all  these  years.  I 
know  you  always  hated  me,  but  you  might  have  had 
some  pity.  All  my  life  I  shall  bear  the  marks  on  my 
soul  of  the  bitter  tyranny  I  have  endured  here.  Now 
I  am  going  away  out  into  the  world,  and  God  knows 
what  will  become  of  me." 

She  folded,  enveloped,  and  addressed  the  note, 
stuck  a  long  hat-pin  fiercely  through  it,  and  left  it,  pat- 
ent, speared  to  her  pin-cushion,  with  her  step-father's 
name  uppermost. 

"Good-bye,  little  room,"  she  said.  "I  feel  I  shall 
never  see  you  again." 

Slowly  and  sadly  she  crossed  the  room  and  turned 
the  handle  of  the  door.  The  door  was  locked. 

Once,  years  ago,  a  happier  man  than  the  Reverend 
Cecil  had  been  Rector  of  Long  Barton.  And  in  the 
room  that  now  was  Betty's  he  had  had  iron  bars  fixed 
to  the  two  windows,  because  that  room  was  the  nursery. 


That  evening,  after  dinner,  Mr.  Vernon  sat  at  his 
parlour  window  looking  idly  along  the  wet  bowling- 
green  to  the  belt  of  lilacs  and  the  pale  gleams  of  watery 
sunset  behind  them.  He  had  passed  a  disquieting  day. 
He  hated  to  leave  things  unfinished.  And  now  the 
idyll  was  ruined  and  the  picture  threatened, — and  Bet- 
ty's portrait  was  not  finished,  and  never  would  be. 

"Come  in,"  he  said;  and  his  landlady  heavily  fol- 
lowed up  her  tap  on  his  door. 


62          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  Sir,"  said  she  with  a  look  that 
seemed  to  him  to  be  almost  a  wink. 

"A  lady?  To  see  me?  Good  Lord!"  said  Vernon. 
Among  all  the  thoughts  of  the  day  this  was  the  one 
thought  that  had  not  come  to  him. 

"Shall  I  show  her  in?"  the  woman  asked,  and  she 
eyed  him  curiously. 

"A  lady,"  he  repeated.    "Did  she  give  her  name?" 

"Yes,  Sir.  Miss  Desmond,  Sir.  Shall  I  shew  her 
in?" 

"Yes ;  shew  her  in,  of  course,"  he  answered  irritably. 

And  to  himself  he  said : 

"The  Devil!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  CRIMINAL. 

If  you  have  found  yourself,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  a 
prisoner  in  your  own  bedroom  you  will  be  able  to  feel 
with  Betty.  Not  otherwise.  Even  your  highly  strung 
imagination  will  be  impotent  to  present  to  you  the 
ecstasy  of  rage,  terror,  resentment  that  fills  the  soul 
when  locked  door  and  barred  windows  say,  quite  quiet- 
ly, but  beyond  appeal:  "Here  you  are,  and  here,  my 
good  child,  you  stay." 

All  the  little  familiar  objects,  the  intimate  associa- 
.  tions  of  the  furniture  of  a  room  that  has  been  for  years 
your  boudoir  as  well  as  your  sleeping  room,  all  the 
decorations  that  you  fondly  dreamed  gave  to  your 
room  a  cachet — the  mark  of  a  distinctive  personality, — 
these  are  of  no  more  comfort  to  you  than  would  be 
strange  bare  stone  walls  and  a  close  unfamiliar  iron 
grating. 

Betty  tried  to  shake  the  window  bars,  but  they  were 
immovable.  She  tried  to  force  the  door  open,  but  her 
silver  buttonhook  was  an  insufficient  lever,  and  her 
tooth-brush  handle  broke  when  she  pitted  it  in  conflict 
against  the  heavy,  old-fashioned  lock.  We  have  all 
read  how  prisoners,  outwitting  their  gaolers,  have  filed 
bars  with  their  pocket  nail-scissors,  and  cut  the  locks 
out  of  old  oak  doors  with  the  small  blade  of  a  pen- 
knife. Betty's  door  was  only  of  pine,  but  her  knife 
broke  off  short ;  and  the  file  on  her  little  scissors  wore 
itself  smooth  against  the  first  unmoved  bar. 

63 


64  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

She  paced  the  room  like  a  caged  lioness.  We  read 
that  did  the  lioness  but  know  her  strength  her  bars 
were  easily  shattered  by  one  blow  of  her  powerful  paw. 
Betty's  little  pink  paws  were  not  powerful  like  the 
lioness's,  and  when  she  tried  to  make  them  help  her, 
she  broke  her  nails  and  hurt  herself. 

It  was  this  moment  that  Letitia  chose  for  rapping  at 
the  door. 

"You  can't  come  in.  What  is  it?"  Betty  was  prompt 
to  say. 

-     "Mrs.  Edwardes's  Albert,  Miss,  come  for  the  Mater- 
nity bag." 

"It's  all  ready  in  the  school-room  cupboard,"  Betty 
'called  through  the  door.  "Number  three." 

She  resisted  an  impulse  to  say  that  she  had  broken 
the  key  in  the  lock  and  to  send  for  the  locksmith.  No : 
there  should  be  no  scandal  at  Long  Barton, — at  least 
not  while  she  had  to  stay  in  it. 

She  did  not  cry.  She  was  sick  with  fury,  and  anger 
made  her  heart  beat  as  Vernon  had  never  had  power 
to  make  it. 

"I  will  be  calm.  I  won't  lose  my  head,"  she  told  her- 
self again  and  again.  She  drank  some  water.  She 
made  herself  eat  the  neglected  breakfast.  She  got  out 
her  diary  and  wrote  in  it,  in  a  handwriting  that  was  not 
Betty's,  and  with  a  hand  that  shook  like  totter-grass. 

"What  will  become  of  me?  What  has  become  of 
him?  My  step-father  must  have  done  something  hor- 
rible to  him.  Perhaps  he  has  had  him  put  in  prison; 
of  course  he  couldn't  do  that  in  these  modern  times, 
like  in  the  French  revolution,  just  for  talking  to  some 
one  he  hadn't  been  introduced  to,  but  he  may  have 
done  it  for  trespassing,  or  damage  to  the  crops,  or 
something.  I  feel  quite  certain  something  has  hap- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  65 

A    •' 

pened  to  him.  He  would  never  have  deserted  me  like 
this  in  my  misery  if  he  were  free.  And  I  can  do  noth- 
ing to  help  him — nothing.  How  shall  I  live  through 
the  day?  How  can  I  bear  it?  And  this  awful  trouble 
has  come  upon  him  just  because  he  was  kind  to  another 
artist.  The  world  is  very,  very,  very  cruel.  I  wish  I 
were  dead!"  She  blotted  the  words  and  locked  away 
the  book.  Then  she  burnt  that  farewell  note  and  went 
and  sat  in  the  window-seat  to  watch  for  her  step-fath- 
er's return.  -,.:.:•••  .  -  :•- •>•*. .••'.  ., 

The  time  was  long.  '  At  last  he  came.  She  saw  him 
open  the  carriage  door  and  reach  out  a  flat  foot,  feel- 
ing for  the  carriage  step.  He  stepped  out,  turned  and 
thrust  a  hand  back  into  the  cab.  Was  he  about  to  hand 
out  a  stern-faced  Protestant  sister,  who  would  take  her 
to  Westerham,  and  she  would  never  be  heard  of  again  ? 
Betty  set  her  teeth  and  waited  anxiously  to  see  if  the 
sister  seemed  strong.  Betty  was,  and  she  would  fight 
for  her  liberty.  With  teeth  and  nails  if  need  were. 

It  was  no  Protestant  sister  to  whom  the  Reverend 
Cecil  had  reached  his  hand.  It  was  only  his  umbrella. 
Betty  breathed  again. 

Well,  now  at  least  he'll  come  and  speak  to  me:  he 
must  come  himself;  even  he  couldn't  give  the  key  to 
the  servants  and  say :  "Please  go  and  unlock  Miss  Liz- 
zie and  bring  her  down !" 

Betty  would  not  move.  "I  shall  just  stay  here  and 
pretend  I  didn't  know  the  door  was  locked,"  said  she. 

But  her  impatience  drove  her  back  to  the  caged-lion- 
ess  walk'  and  when  at  last  she  heard  the  key  turn  in 
the  door  she  had  only  just  time  to  spring  to  the  win- 
dow-seat and  compose  herself  in  an  attitude  of  graceful 
defiance. 

It  was  thrown  away. 


66 

The  door  only  opened  wide  enough  to  admit  a  din- 
ner tray  pushed  in  by  a  hand  she  knew.  Then  the 
door  closed  again. 

The  same  thing  happened  with  tea  and  supper. 

It  was  not  till  after  supper  that  Betty,  gazing  out  on 
the  pale  watery  sunset,  found  it  blurred  to  her  eyes. 
There  was  no  more  hope  now.  She  was  a  prisoner. 
If  He  was  not  a  prisoner  he  ought  to  be.  It  was  the 
only  thing  that  could  excuse  his  silence.  He  might  at 
least  have  gone  by  the  gate  or  waved  a  handkerchief. 
Well,  all  was  over  between  them,  and  Betty  was  alone 
in  the  world.  She  had  not  cried  all  day,  but  now  she 

did  cry. 

*         *         *         *         * 

Vernon  always  prided  himself  on  having  a  heart  for 
any  fate,  but  this  was  one  of  the  interviews  that  one 
would  rather  have  avoided.  All  day  he  had  schooled 
himself  to  resignation,  had  almost  reconciled  himself 
to  the  spoiling  of  what  had  promised  to  be  a  master- 
piece. Explications  with  Betty  would  brush  the  bloom 
off  everything.  Yet  he  must  play  the  part  well.  But 
what  part?  Oh,  hang  all  meddlers! 

"Miss  Desmond,"  said  the  landlady;  and  he  braced 
his  nerves  to  meet  a  tearful,  an  indignant  or  a  desper- 
ate Betty. 

But  there  was  no  Betty  to  be  met ;  no  Betty  of  any 
kind. 

Instead,  a  short  squarely-built  middle-aged  lady 
walked  briskly  into  the  room,  and  turned  to  see  the 
door  well  closed  before  she  advanced  towards  him. 

He  bowed  with  indescribable  emotions. 

"Mr.  Eustace  Vernon  ?"  said  the  lady.  She  wore  a 
sensible  short  skirt  and  square-toed  brown  boots.  Her 
hat  was  boat-shaped  and  her  abundant  hair  was 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          67 

screwed  up  so  as  to  be  well  out  of  her  way.  Her  face 
was  square  and  sensible  like  her  shoulders,  and  her 
boots.  Her  eyes  dark,  clear  and  near  sighted.  She 
wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and  carried  a  crutch-han- 
dled cane.  No  vision  could  have  been  less  like  Betty. 

Vernon  bowed,  and  moved  a  chair  towards  her. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  took  it.  "Now,  Mr. 
Vernon,  sit  down  too,  and  let's  talk  this  over  like  rea- 
sonable beings.  You  may  smoke  if  you  like.  It  clears 
the  brain." 

Vernon  sat  down  and  mechanically  took  out  a  cigar- 
ette, but  he  held  it  unlighted. 

"Now,"  said  the  square  lady,  leaning  her  elbows  on 
the  table  and  her  chin  on  her  hands,  "I  am  Betty's 
aunt." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come,"  said  Vernon  help- 
lessly. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  briskly  answered.  "Now  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Vernon. 

"Perhaps  it  will  clear  the  ground  a  little  if  I  say  at 
once  that  I  haven't  come  to  ask  your  intentions,  be- 
cause of  course  you  haven't  any.  My  reverend  broth- 
er-in-law, on  the  other  hand,  insists  that  you  have,  and 
that  they  are  strictly  dishonourable." 

Vernon  laughed,  and  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"I  fear  Mr.  Underwood  misunderstood, — "  he  said, 
"and—" 

"He  is  a  born  misunderstander,"  said  Miss  Julia 
Desmond.  "Now,  I'm  not.  Light  your  cigarette, 
man ;  you  can  give  me  one  if  you  like,  to  keep  you  in 
countenance.  A  light — thanks.  Now  will  you  speak, 
or  shall  I?" 


68          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"You  seem  to  have  more  to  say  than  I,  Miss  Des- 
mond." 

"Ah,  that's  because  you  don't  trust  me.  In  other 
words,  you  don't  know  me.  That's  one  of  the  most 
annoying  things  in  life :  to  be  really  an  excellent  sort, 
and  to  be  quite  unable  to  make  people  see  it  at  the 
first  go-off.  Well,  here  goes.  My  worthy  brother-in- 
law  finds  you  and  my  niece  holding  hands  in  a  shed." 

"We  were  not,"  said  Vernon.  "I  was  telling  her 
fortune — " 

"It's  my  lead  now,"  interrupted  the  lady.  "Your 
turn  next.  He  being  what  he  is — to  the  pure  all  things 
are  impure,  you  know — instantly  draws  the  most  har- 
rowing conclusions,  hits  you  with  a  stick. — By  the  way, 
you  behaved  uncommonly  well  about  that." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Vernon,  smiling  a  little.  It  is 
pleasant  to  be  appreciated. 

"Yes,  really  very  decently,  indeed.  I  daresay  it 
wouldn't  have  hurt  a  fly,  but  if  you'd  been  the  sort  of 
man  he  thinks  you  are — However  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  He  hits  you  with  a  stick,  locks  the  child  into 
her  room — What  did  you  say?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Vernon. 

"All  right.  I  didn't  hear  it.  Locks  her  in  her  room, 
and  wires  to  my  sister.  Takes  a  carriage  to  Sevenoaks 
to  do  it  too,  to  avoid  scandal.  I  happen  to  be  at  my 
sister's,  on  my  way  from  Cairo  to  Norway,  so  I  under- 
take to  run  down.  He  meets  me  at  the  station,  and 
wants  me  to  go  straight  home  and  blackguard  Betty. 
But  I  prefer  to  deal  with  principals." 

"You  mean—" 

"I  mean  that  I  know  as  well  as  you  "do  that  what- 
ever has  happened  has  been  your  doing  and  not  that 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          69 

dear  little  idiot's.  Now,  are  you  going  to  tell  me  about 
it?" 

He  had  rehearsed  already  a  form  of  words  in  Which 
"Brother  artists"  should  have  loomed  large.  But  now 
that  he  rose,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spoke,  it  was 
in  words  that  had  not  been  rehearsed. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Desmond,"  said  he,  "the  fact  is, 
you're  right.  I  haven't  any  intentions — certainly  not 
dishonourable  ones.  But  I  was  frightfully  bored  in  the 
country,  and  your  'niece  is  bored,  too — more  bored  than 
I  am.  No  one  ever  understands  or  pities  the  boredom 
of  the  very  young,"  he  added  pensively. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  liked  meeting  her, 
and  she  liked  meeting  me." 

"And  the  fortune-telling?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
you  didn't  enjoy  holding  the  child's  hand  and  putting 
her  i'.i  a  silly  flutter?" 

"I  deny  the  flutter,"  he  said,  "but— Well,  yes,  of 
course  I  enjoyed  it.  You  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  said 
I  didn't." 

"No,"  said  she. 

"I  enjoyed  it  more  than  I  expected  to,"  he  added 
with  a  frankness  that  he  had  not  meant  to  use,  "much 
more.  But  I  didn't  say  a  word  of  love — only  per- 
haps—" 

"Only  perhaps  you  made  the  idea  of  it  underlie  every 
word  you  did  speak.  Don't  I  know?"  said  Miss  Des- 
mond. "Bless  the  man,  I've  been  young  myself !" 

"Miss  Betty  is  very  charming,"  said  he,  "and — and 
if  I  hadn't  met  her — " 

"If  you  hadn't  met  her  some  other  man  would. 
True ;  but  I  fancy  her  father  would  rather  it  had  been 
some  other  man." 


7o          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I  didn't  mean  that  in  the  least,"  said  Vernon  with 
some  heat.  "I  meant  that  if  I  hadn't  met  her  she  would 
have  gone  on  being  bored,  and  so  should  I.  Don't 
think  me  a  humbug,  Miss  Desmond.  I  am  more  sorry 
than  I  can  say  that  I  should  have  been  the  means  of 
causing  her  any  unhappiness." 

"  'Causing  her  unhappiness,' — poor  little  Betty,  poor 
little  trusting  innocent  silly  little  girl !  That's  about  it, 
isn't  it?" 

It  was  so  like  it  that  he  hotly  answered : 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "there's  no  great 
harm  done.  She'll  get  over  it,  and  more's  been  lost  on 
market  days.  Thanks." 

She  lighted  a  second  cigarette  and  sat  very  upright, 
the  cigarette  in  her  mouth  and  her  hands  on  the  handle 
of  her  stick. 

"You  can't  help  it,  of  course.  Men  with  your  col- 
oured eyes  never  can.  That  green  hazel — girls  ought 
to  be  taught  at  school  that  it's  a  danger-signal.  Only, 
since  your  heart's  not  in  the  business  any  more  than 
her's  is — as  you  say,  you  were  both  bored  to  death — I 
want  to  ask  you,  as  a  personal  favour  to  me,  just  to  let 
the  whole  thing  drop.  Let  the  girl  alone.  Go  right 
away." 

"It's  an  unimportant  detail,  and  I'm  ashamed  to 
mention  it,"  said  Vernon,  "but  I've  got  a  picture  on 
hand — I'm  painting  a  bit  of  the  Warren." 

"Well,  go  to  Low  Barton  and  put  up 
finish  your  precious  picture.  You  won't 
again  unless  you  run  after  her." 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Vernon,  "I  had  already  de- 
cided to  let  the  whole  thing  drop.  I'm  ashamed  of  the 


.THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  71 

trouble  I've  caused  her  and — and  I've  taken  rooms  at 
Low  Barton." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "you  are  the 
coldest  lover  I've  ever  set  eyes  on." 

"I'm  not  a  lover,"  he  answered  swiftly.  "Do  you 
wish  I  were?" 

"For  Betty's  sake,  I'm  glad  you  aren't.  But  I  think 
I  should  respect  you  more  if  you  weren't  quite  so  arc- 
tic." 

"I'm  not  an  incendiary,  at  any  rate,"  said  he,  "and 
that's  something,  with  my  coloured  eyes,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  "whatever  your  temperature  is,  I 
rather  like  you.  I  don't  wonder  at  Betty  in  the  least." 

Vernon  bowed. 

"All  I  ask  is  your  promise  that  you'll  not  speak  to 
her  again." 

"I  can't  promise  that,  you  know.  I  can't  be  rude  to 
her.  But  I'll  promise  not  to  go  out  of  my  way  to  meet 
her  again."  He  sighed. 

"As,  yes — it  is  sad — all  that  time  wasted  and  no 
rabbits  caught."  Again  Miss  Desmond  had  gone  un- 
pleasantly near  his  thought.  Of  course  he  said : 

"You  don't  understand  me." 

"Near  enough,"  said  Miss  Desmond;  "and  now  I'll 
go." 

"Let  me  thank  you  for  coming,"  said  Vernon  eager- 
ly; "it  was  more  than  good  of  you.  I  must  own  that 
my  heart  sank  when  I  knew  it  was  Miss  Betty's  aunt 
who  honoured  me  with  a  visit.  But  I  am  most  glad  you 
came.  I  never  would  have  believed  that  a  lady  could  be 
so  reasonable  and — and — " 

"And  gentlemanly  ?"  said  the  lady.  "Yes, — it's  my 
brother-in-law  who  is  the  old  woman,  poor  dear!  You 
see,  Mr.  Vernon,  I've  been  running  round  the  world 


72  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

for  five  and  twenty  years,  and  I've  kept  my  eyes  open. 
And  when  I  was  of  an  age  to  be  silly,  the  man  I  was 
silly  about  had  your  coloured  eyes.  He  married  an 
actress,  poor  fellow, — or  rather,  she  married  him,  be- 
fore he  could  say  'knife.'  That's  the  sort  of  thing 
that'll  happen  to  you,  unless  you're  uncommonly  care- 
ful. So  that's  settled.  You  give  me  your  word  not  to 
try  to  see  Betty?" 

"I  give  you  my  word.  You  won't  believe  in  my  re- 
gret-" 

"I  believe  in  that  right  enough.  It  must  be  simply 
sickening  to  have  the  whole  show  given  away  like  this. 
Oh,  I  believe  in  your  regret !" 

"My  regret,"  said  Vernon  steadily,  "for  any  pain  I 
may  have  caused  your  niece.  Do  please  see  how  grate- 
ful I  am  to  you  for  having  seen  at  once  that  it  was  not 
her  fault  at  all,  but  wholly  mine." 

"Very  nicely  said:  good  boy!"  said  Betty's  aunt. 
"Well,  my  excellent  brother-in-law  is  waiting  outside 
in  the  fly,  gnashing  his  respectable  teeth,  no  doubt,  and 
inferring  all  sorts  of  complications  from  the  length  of 
our  interview.  Good-bye.  You're  just  the  sort  of 
young  man  I  like,  and  I'm  sorry  we  haven't  met  on  a 
happier  footing.  I'm  sure  we  should  Have  got  on  to- 
gether. Don't  you  think  so?" 

"I'm  sure  we  should,"  said  he   truly.     "Mayn't    I 

1  99 

hope — 

She  laughed  outright. 

"You  have  indeed  the  passion  for  acquaintance  with- 
out jntroduction,"  she  said.  "No,  you  may  not  call  on 
me  in  town.  Besides,  I'm  never  there.  Good-bye.  And 
take  care  of  yourself.  You're  bound  to  be  bitten  some 
clay,  you  know,  and  bitten  badly." 

"I  wish  I  thought  you  forgave  me." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  73 

"Forgive  you?  Of  course  I  forgive  you!  You  can 
no  more  help  making  love,  I  suppose — no,  don't  inter- 
rupt: the  thing's  the  same  whatever  you  call  it — you 
can  no  more  help  making  love  than  a  cat  can  help  steal- 
ing cream.  Only  one  day  the  cat  gets  caught,  and  bad- 
ly beaten,  and  one  day  you'll  get  caught,  and  the  beat- 
ing will  be  a  bad  one,  unless  I'm  a  greater  fool  than  I 
take  myself  for.  And  now  I'll  go  and  unlock  Betty's 
prison  and  console  her.  Don't  worry  about  her.  I'll 
see  that  she's  not  put  upon.  Good  night.  No,  in  the 
circumstances  you'd  better  not  see  me  to  my  carriage !" 

She  shook  hands  cordially,  and  left  Vernon  to  his 
thoughts. 

Miss  Desmond  had  done  what  she  came  to  do,  and 
he  knew  it.  It  was  almost  a  relief  to  feel  that  now 
he  could  not  try  to  see  Betty  however  much  he  wished 
it, — however  much  he  might  know  her  to  wish  it.  He 

shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lighted  another  cigarette. 
***** 

Betty,  worn  out  with  crying,  had  fallen  asleep.  THe 
sound  of  wheels  roused  her.  It  seemed  to  rain  cabs  at 
the  Rectory  to-day. 

There  were  voices  in  the  hall,  steps  on  the  stairs. 
Her  door  was  unlocked  and  there  entered  no  tray  of 
prisoner's  fare,  no  reproachful  step-father,  no  Protest- 
ant sister,  but  a  brisk  and  well-loved  aunt,  who  shut 
the  door,  and  spoke. 

"All  in  the  dark?"  she  said.  "Where  are  you, 
child?" 

"Here,"  said  Betty. 

"Let  me  strike  a  light.    Oh,  yes,  there  you  are !" 

"Oh,  aunt, — has  he  sent  for  you?"  said  Betty  fear- 
fully. "Oh,  don't  scold  me,  auntie!  I  am  so  tired.  I 
don't  think  I  can  bear  any  more." 


74  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I'm  not  going  to  scold  you,  you  silly  little  kitten," 
said  the  aunt  cheerfully.  "Come,  buck  up!  It's  noth- 
ing so  very  awful,  after  all.  You'll  be  laughing  at  it  all 
before  a  fortnight's  over." 

"Then  he  hasn't  told  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has ;  he's  told  me  everything  there  was 
to  tell,  and  a  lot  more,  too.  Don't  worry,  child.  You 
just  go  straight  to  bed  and  I'll  tuck  you  up,  and  we'll 
talk  it  all  over  in  the  morning." 

"Aunty,"  said  Betty,  obediently  beginning  to  unfas- 
ten her  dress,  "did  he  say  anything  about  Him?"' 

"Well,  yes— a  little." 

"He  hasn't — hasn't  done  anything  to  him,  has  he?" 

"What  could  he  do  ?  Giving  drawing  lessons  isn't  a 
hanging  matter,  Bet." 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  from  him  all  day, — and  I 
thought— 

"You  won't  hear  anything  more  of  him,  Betty,  my 
dear.  I've  seen  your  Mr.  Vernon,  and  a  very  nice 
young  man  he  is,  too.  He's  frightfully  cut  up  about 
having  got  you  into  a  row,  and  he  sees  that  the  only 
thing  he  can  do  is  to  go  quietly  away.  I  needn't  tell 
you,  Betty,  though  I  shall  have  to  explain  it  very  thor- 
oughly to  your  father,  that  Mr.  Vernon  is  no  more  in 
love  with  you  than  you  are  with  him.  In  fact  he's 
engaged  to  another  girl.  He's  just  interested  in  you 
as  a  promising  pupil." 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  "of  course  I  know  that." 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  ESCAPE. 

"It's  all  turned  out  exactly  like  what  I  said  it  was 
going  to,  exactly  to  a  T,"  said  Mrs.  Symes,  wrapping 
her  wet  arms  in  her  apron  and  leaning  them  on  the 
fence;  "if  it  wasn't  that  it's  Tuesday  and  me  behind- 
hand as  it  is,  I'd  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Do  the  things  good  to  lay  a  bit  in  the  rinse-water," 
said  Mrs.  James,  also  leaning  on  the  fence,  "sorter 
whitens  them's  what  I  always  say.  I  don't  mind  if  I 
lend  you  a  hand  with  the  wringing  after.  What's 
turned  out  like  you  said  it  was  going  to  ?" 

"Miss  Betty's  decline."  Mrs.  Symes  laughed  low 
and  huskily.  "What  did  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  James  ?" 

"I  don't  quite  remember  not  just  at  the  minute,"  said 
Mrs.  James;  "you  tells  so  many  things." 

"And  well  for  some  people  I  do.  Else  they  wouldn't 
never  know  nothing.  I  told  you  as  it  wasn't  no  decline 
Miss  Betty  was  setting  down  under.  I  said  it  was  only 
what's  natural,  her  being  the  age  she  is.  I  said  what 
she  wanted  was  a  young  man,  and  I  said  she'd  get  one. 
And  what  do  you  think?" 
•  "I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"She  did  get  one,"  said  Mrs.  Symes  impressively, 
"that  same  week,  just  as  if  she'd  been  a-listening  to  my 
very  words.  It  was  as  it  might  be  Friday  you  and  me 
had  that  little  talk.  Well,  as  it  might  be  the  Saturday, 
she  meets  the  young  man,  a-painting  pictures  in  the 

75 


76          THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

Warren — my  Ernest's  youngest  saw  'em  a-talking,  and 
told  his  mother  when  he  come  home  to  his  dinner." 

"To  think  of  that,  and  me  never  hearing  a  word!" 
said  Mrs.  James  with  frank  regret. 

"I  knew  it  ud  be  'Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my 
lad,'  "  Mrs.  Symes  went  on  with  cumbrous  enjoyment, 
"and  so  it  was.  They  used  to  keep  their  rondyvoos  in 
the  wood — six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Mrs.  Wilson's 
Tom  used  to  see  'em  reg'lar  every  day  as  he  went  by  to 
his  work." 

"Lor,"  said  Mrs.  James  feebly. 

"Of  course  Tom  he  never  said  nothing,  except  to  a 
few  friends  of  his  over  a  glass.  They  enjoyed  the  joke, 
I  promise  you.  But  old  George  Marbould — he  ain't 
never  been  quite  right  in  his  head,  I  don't  think,  since 
his  Ruby  went  wrong.  Pity,  I  always  think.  A  great 
clumsy  plain-faced  girl  like  her  might  a  kept  herself 
respectable.  She  hadn't  the  temptation  some  of  us 
might  have  had  in  our  young  days." 

"No  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  James,  smoothing  her  hair, 
"and  old  George — what  silliness  was  he  up  to  this 
time?" 

"Why  he  sees  the  two  of  'em  together  one  fine  morn- 
ing and  'stead  of  doing  like  he'd  be  done  by  he  ups  to 
the  Vicarage  and  tells  the  old  man.  'You  come  alonger 
me,  Sir/  says  he,  'and  have  a  look  at  your  daughter  a- 
kissin'  and  huggin'  up  in  Beale's  shed,  along  of  a  per- 
fect stranger.'  So  the  old  man  he  says,  'God  bless  you,' 
— George  is  proud  of  him  saying  that — and  off  he  goes, 
in  a  regular  fanteague,  beats  the  young  master  to  a 
jelly,  for  all  he's  an  old  man  and  feeble,  and  shuts  Miss 
up  in  her  room.  Now  that  wouldn't  a  been  my  way." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.    James. 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          77 

"I  should  a  asked  him  in,"  said  Mrs.  Symes,  "if  it 
had  been  a  gell  of  mine,  and  give  him  a  good  meal 
with  a  glass  of  ale  to  it,  and  a  tiddy  drop  of  something 
to  top  up  with,  and  I'd  a  let  him  light  his  nasty  pipe, 
— and  then  when  he  was  full  and  contented  I'd  a  up 
and  said,  'Now  my  man,  you've  'ad  time  to  think  it 
over,  and  no  one  can't  say  as  I've  hurried  you  nor  flur- 
ried you.  But  it's  time  as  we  began  talking.  So  just 
you  tell  me  what  you're  a-goin  to  do  about  it.  If  you 
'ave  the  feelings  of  a  man,'  I'd  a  said  'you'll  marry  the 
girl.' ' 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  James  with  emotion. 

"Instead  of  which,  bless  your  'art,  he  beats  the 
young  man  off  with  a  stick,  like  as  if  he  was  a  mad 
dog ;  and  young  Miss  is  a  goin'  to  be  sent  to  furrin  parts 
to  a  stride  boardin'  school,  to  learn  her  not  to  have  any 
truck  with  young  chaps." 

"  'Ard,  I  call  it,"  said  Mrs.  James. 

"An'  well  you  may — crooil  'ard.  How's  he  expect 
the  girl  to  get  a  husband  if  he  drives  the  young  fellers 
away  with  walking-sticks?  Pore  gell!  I  shouldn't 
wonder  but  what  she  lives  arad  dies  a  maid,  after  this 
set-out." 

"We  shall  miss  'er  when  she  goes,"  said  Mrs.  James. 

"I  don't  say  we  shan't.  But  there  ain't  no  one  as 
you  can't  get  on  without  if  you're  put  to  it.  And 
whether  or  not,  she's  going  to  far  foreign  parts  where 
there  ain't  no  young  chaps." 

"Poor  young  thing,"  said  Mrs.  James,  very  sympa- 
thetic. "I  think  I'll  drop  in  as  I'm  passing,  and  see 
how  she  takes  it." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Symes,  unrolling  her  arms, 
white  and  wrinkled  with  washing,  to  set  them  aggres- 


78          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

sively  on  her  lips,  "it's  the  last  word  as  passes  between 
us,  Mrs.  James,  so  now  you  know." 

"Lord,  Maria,  don't  fly  out  at  me  that  way."  Mrs. 
James  shrank  back :  "How  was  I  to  know  you'd  take 
it  like  that?" 

"Do  you  suppose,"  asked  Mrs.  Symes,  "as  no  one 
ain't  got  no  legs  except  you  ?  I'm  a  going  up,  soon  as 
I've  got  the  things  on  the  line  and  cleaned  myself.  I 
only  heard  it  after  I'd  got  every  blessed  rag  in  soak,  or 
I'd  a  gone  up  afore." 

"Mightn't  I  step  up  with  you  for  company?"  Mrs. 
James  asked. 

"No,  you  mightn't.  But  I  don't  mind  dropping  in  as 
I  come  home,  to  tell  you  about  it.  One  of  them  Catho- 
lic Nunnery  schools,  I  expect,  which  it's  sudden  death 
to  a  man  but  to  set  his  foot  into." 

"Poor  young  thing,"  said  Mrs.  James  again. 
*         *         *         *         * 

Betty  was  going  to  Paris. 

There  had  been  "much  talk  about  and  about"  the 
project.  Now  it  was  to  be. 

There  had  been  interviews. 

There  was  the  first  in  which  the  elder  Miss  Desmoncl 
told  her  brother-in-law  in  the  plain  speech  she  loved 
exactly  what  sort  of  a  fool  he  had  made  of  himself  in 
the  matter  of  Betty  and  the  fortune-telling. 

When  he  was  convinced  of  error — it  was  not  easily 
done — he  would  have  liked  to  tell  Betty  that  he  was 
sorry,  but  he  belonged  to  a  generation  that  does  not 
apologise  to  the  next. 

The  second  interview  was  between  the  aunt  and 
Betty.  That  was  the  one  in  which  so  much  good  ad- 
vice was  given. 

"You  know,"  the  aunt  wound  up,  "all  young  women 


79 

want  to  be  in  love,  and  all  young  men  too.  I  don't 
mean  that  there  was  anything  of  that  sort  between 
you  and  your  artist  friend.  But  there  might  have  been. 
Now  look  here, — I'm  going  to  speak  quite  straight  to 
you.  Don't  you  ever  let  young  men  get  monkeying 
about  with  your  hands;  whether  they  call  it  fortune- 
telling  or  whether  they  don't,  their  reason  for  doing  so 
is  always  the  same — or  likely  to  be.  And  you  want  to 
keep  your  hand — as  well  as  your  lips — for  the  man 
you're  going  to  marry.  That's  all,  but  don't  you  forget 
it.  Now  what's  this  I  hear  about  your  wanting  to  go 
to  Paris?" 

"I  did  want  to  go,"  said  Betty,  "but  I  don't  care 
about  anything  now.  Everything's  hateful." 

"It  always  is,"  said  the  aunt,  "but  it  won't  always 
be." 

"Don't  think  I  care  a  straw  about  not  seeing  Mr. 
Vernon  again,"  said  Betty  hastily.  "It's  not  that." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  aunt  sympathetically. 

"No, — but  Father  was  so  hateful — you've  no  idea. 
If  I'd — if  I'd  run  away  and  got  married  secretly  he 
Couldn't  have  made  more  fuss." 

"You're  a  little  harsh — just  a  little.  Of  course  you 
and  I  know  exactly  how  it  was,  but  remember  how  it 
looked  to  him.  Why,  it  couldn't  have  looked  worse  if 
you  really  had  been  arranging  an  elopement." 

"He  hadn't  got  his  arm  around  me,"  insisted  Betty; 
"it  was  somewhere  right  away  in  the  background.  He 
was  holding  himself  up  with  it." 

"Don't  I  tell  you  I  understand  all  that  perfectly? 
What  I  want  to  understand  is  how  you  feel  about 
Paris.  Are  you  absolutely  off  the  idea  ?" 

"I  couldn't  go  if  I  wasn't." 

"I  wonder  what  you  think  Paris  is  like,"  mused  the 


80  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

aunt.  "I  suppose  you  think  it's  all  one  wild  razzle- 
dazzle — one  delirious  round  of — of  museums  and  pic- 
ture galleries." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Betty  rather  shortly. 

"If  you  went  you'd  have  to  work." 

"There's  no  chance  of  my  going." 

"Then  we'll  put  the  idea  away  and  say  no  more  about 
it.  Get  me  my  Continental  Bradshaw  out  of  my  dress- 
ing-bag: I'm  no  use  here.  Nobody  loves  me,  and  I'll 
go  to  Norway  by  the  first  omnibus  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"Don't,"  said  Betty ;  "how  can  you  say  nobody  loves 
you?" 

"Your  step-father  doesn't,  anyway.  That's  why  I 
can  make  him  do  what  I  like  when  I  take  the  trouble. 
When  people  love  you  they'll  never  do  anything  for 
you, — not  even  answer  a  plain  question  with  a  plain 
yes  or  no.  Go  and  get  the  Bradshaw.  You'll  be  sorry 
when  I'm  gone." 

"Aunt  Julia,  you  don't  really  mean  it." 

"Of  course  not.  I  never  mean  anything  except  the 
things  I  don't  say.  The  Bradshaw!" 

Betty  came  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  aunt's  chair. 

"It's  not  fair  to  tease  me,"  she  said,  "and  tantalise 
me.  You  know  how  mizzy  I  am." 

"No.  I  don't  know  anything.  You  won't  tell  me 
anything.  Go  and  get — " 

"Dear,  darling,  pretty,  kind,  clever  Aunt,"  cried 
Betty,  "Fd  give  my  ears  to  go." 

"Then  borrow  h  large  knife  from  cook,  and  sharpen 
it  on  the  front  door-step !  No — I  don't  mean  to  use  it 
on  your  step-father.  I'll  Have  your  pretty  ears  mummi- 
fied and  wear  them  on  my  watch-chain.  No — mind  my 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          8* 

spectacles!  Let  me  go.  I  daresay  it  won't  come  to 
anything." 

"Do  you  really  mean  you'd  take  me?" 

"I'd  take  you  fast  enough,  but  I  wouldn't  keep  you. 
We  must  find  a  dragon  to  guard  the  Princess.  Oh, 
we'll  get  a  nice  tame  kind  puss-cat  of  a  dragon, — but 
that  dragon  will  not  be  your  Aunt  Julia !  Let  me  go, 
I  say.  I  thought  you  didn't  care  about  anything  any 
more?" 

"I  didn't  know  there  could  be  anything  to  care  for," 
said  Betty  honestly,  "especially  Paris.  Well,  I  won't 
if  you  hate  it  so,  but  oh,  aunt — "  She  still  sat  on  the 
floor  by  the  chair  her  aunt  had  left,  and  thought  and 
thought.  The  aunt  went  straight  down  to  the  study. 

"Now,  Cecil,"  she  said,  coming  briskly  in  and  shut- 
ting the  door,  "you've  made  that  poor  child  hate  the 
thought  of  you  and  you've  only  yourself  to  thank." 

"I  know  you  think  so,"  said  he,  closing  the  heavy 
book  over  which  he  had  been  stooping. 

"I  don't  mean,"  she  added  hastily,  for  she  was  not 
a  cruel  woman,  "that  she  really  hates  you,  of  course. 
But  you've  frightened  her,  and  shaken  her  nerves, 
locking  her  up  in  her  room  like  that.  Upon  my  word, 
you  are  old  enough  to  know  better !" 

"I  was  so  alarmed,  so  shaken  myself — "  he  began, 
but  she  interrupted  him. 

"I  didn't  come  in  and  disturb  your  work  just  to  say 
all  that,  of  course,"  she  said,  "but  really,  Cecil,  I  under- 
stand things  better  than  you  think.  I  know  how  fond 
you  really  are  of  Betty." 

The  Reverend  Cecil  doubted  this ;  but  he  said  noth- 
ing. 

"And  you  know  that  I'm  fond  enough  of  the  child 


82  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

myself.  Now,  all  this  has  upset  you  both  tremen- 
dously. What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"I — I — nothing  I  thought.  The  less  said  about 
these  deplorable  affairs  the  better.  Lizzie  will  soon  re- 
cover her  natural  tone,  and  forget  all  about  the  mat- 
ter." 

"Then  you  mean  to  let  everything  go  on  in  the  old 
way?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  he  uneasily. 

"Well,  it's  your  own  affair,  naturally,"  she  spoke 
with  a  studied  air  of  detachment  which  worried  him 
exactly  as  it  was  meant  to  do. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  anxiously.  He  Had 
never  been  able  wholly  to  approve  Miss  Julia  Desmond. 
She  smoked  cigarettes,  and  he  could  not  think  that  this 
would  have  been  respectable  in  any  other  woman.  Of 
course,  she  was  different  from  any  other  woman,  but 
still — .  Then  the  Reverend  Cecil  could  not  deem  it 
womanly  to  explore,  unchaperoned,  the  less  well-known 
quarters  of  four  continents,  to  penetrate  even  to  regions 
where  skirts  were  considered  improper  and  side-saddles 
were  unknown.  Even  the  nearness  of  Miss  Desmond's 
fiftieth  birthday  hardly  lessened  at  all  the  poignancy  of 
his  disapproval.  Besides,  she  had  not  always  been 
fifty,  and  she  had  always,  in  his  recollection  of  her, 
smoked  cigarettes,  and  travelled  alone.  Yet  he  had  a 
certain  well-founded  respect  for  her  judgment,  and  for 
that  fine  luminous  common-sense  of  hers  which  had 
more  than  once  shewn  him  his  own  mistakes.  On  the 
rare  occasions  when  he  and  she  had  differed  he  had  al- 
ways realized,  later,  that  she  had  been  in  the  right. 
And  she  was  "gentlemanly"  enough  never  once  to  have 
said:  "I  told  you  so!" 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         83 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  again,  for  she  was 
silent,  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  long  coat,  her 
sensible  brown  shoes  sticking  straight  out  in  front  of 
her  chair. 

"If  you  really  want  to  know,  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said, 
"but  I  hate  to  interfere  in  other  people's  business.  You 
see,  I  know  how  deeply  she  has  felt  this,  and  of  course 
I  know  you  have  too,  so  I  wondered  whether  you 
hadn't  thought  of  some  little  plan  for — for  altering  the 
circumstances  a  little,  so  that  everything  will  blow  over 
and  settle  down,  so  that  when  you  and  she  come  to- 
gether again  you'll  be  better  friends  than  ever." 

"Come  together  again,"  he  repeated,  and  the  paper- 
knife  was  still  restless,  "do  you  want  me  to  let  her  go 
away?  To  London?" 

Visions  of  Lizzie,  in  unseemly  low-necked  dresses 
surrounded  by  crowds  of  young  men — all  possible  Ver- 
nons — lent  a  sudden  firmness  to  his  voice,  a  sudden 
alertness  to  his  manner." 

"No,  certainly  not,"  she  answered  the  voice  and  the 
manner  as  much  as  the  words.  "I  shouldn't  dream  of 
such  a  thing.  Then  it  hadn't  occurred  to  you?" 

"It  certainly  had  not." 

"You  see,"  she  said  earnestly,  "it's  like  this — at 
least  this  is  how  I  see  it:  She's  all  shaken  and  upset, 
and  so  are  you,  and  when  I've  gone — and  I  must  go  in 
a  very  little  time — you'll  both  of  you  simply  settle 
down  to  thinking  over  it  all,  and  you'll  grow  farther 
and  farther  apart!" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  he ;  "things  like  this  always 
right  themselves  if  one  leaves  them  alone.  Lizzie  and 
I  have  always  got  on  very  well  together,  in  a  quiet  way. 
We  are  neither  of  us  demonstrative." 

"Now  Heaven  help  the  man!"  was  the  woman's 


84          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

thought.  She  remembered  Betty's  clinging  arms,  her 
heartfelt  kisses,  the  fervency  of  the  voice  that  said, 
"Dear  darling,  pretty,  kind,  clever  Aunt !  I'd  give  my 
ears  to  go."  Betty  not  demonstrative!  Heaven  help 
the  man ! 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  know.  But  when  people  are 
young  these  thinks  rankle." 

"They  won't  with  her,"  he  said.  "She  has  a  singu- 
larly noble  nature,  under  that  quiet  exterior." 

Miss  Desmond  drew  a  long  breath  and  began  afresh. 

"Then  there's  another  thing.  She's  fretting  over 
this — thinks  now  that  it  was  something  to  be  ashamed 
of;  she  didn't  think  so  at  the  time,  of  course." 

"You  mean  that  it  was  I  who — " 

This  was  thin  ice  again.  Miss  Desmond  skated 
quickly  away  from  it  with,  "Well,  you  see,  I've  been 
talking  to  her.  She  really  is  fretting.  Why  she's  got 
ever  so  much  thinner  in  the  last  week." 

"I  could  get  a  locum,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  take  her 
to  a  Hydropathic  Establishment  for  a  fortnight." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  said  Miss  Desmond  to  herself. 
Aloud  she  said :  "That  would  be  delightful,  later.  But 
just  now — well,  of  course  it's  for  yc,u  to  decide, — but 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  two  to 
be  apart  for  a  while.  If  you're  here  alone  together — 
well,  the  very  sight  of  you  will  remind  each  other — 
That's  not  grammar,  as  you  say,  but — " 

He  had  not  said  anything.  He  was  thinking,  finger- 
ing the  brass  bosses  on  the  corners  of  the  divine  Augus- 
tine, and  tracing  the  pattern  on  the  stamped  pigskin. 

"Of  course  if  you  care  to  risk  it,"  she  went  on  still 
with  that  fine  air  of  detachment. — "but  I  have  seen 
breaches  that  nothing  could  heal  arise  in  just  that  way. 


OTHE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         83 

Two  people  sitting  down  together  and  thinking  over 
everything  they  had  against  each  other." 

"But  I've  nothing  against  Lizzie." 

"I  daresay  not,"  Miss  Desmond  lost  patience  at  la 
"but  she  has  against  you,  or  will  have  if  you  let  her 
stay  here  brooding  over  it.  However  if  you  like  k> 
risk  it — I'm  sorry  I  spoke."  She  got  up  and  moved  to 
the  door. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  hastily,  "do  not  be  sorry  you 
spoke.  You  have  given  me  food  for  reflection.  I  will 
think  it  all  over  quietly  and — and — "  he  did  not  like  to 
talk  about  prayers  to  Miss  Desmond  somehow,  "and — 
calmly,  and  if  I  see  that  you  are  right — I  am  sure  you 
mean  most  kindly  by  me." 

"Indeed  I  do,"  she  said  heartily,  and  gave  him  her 
hand  in  the  manly  way  he  hated.  He  took  it,  held  it 
limply  an  instant,  and  repeated : 

"Most  kindly." 

He  thought  it  over  for  so  long  that  the  aunt  almost 
lost  hope. 

"I  have  to  hold  my  tongue  with  both  hands  to  keep 
it  quiet.  And  if  I  say  another  word  I  shall  spoil  the 
song,"  she  told  Betty.  "I've  done  my  absolute  best. 
If  that  doesn't  fetch  him,  nothing  will !" 

It  had  "fetched  him."  At  the  end  of  two  intermin- 
able days  he  sent  to  ask  Miss  Desmond  to  speak  to  him 
in  the  study.  She  went. 

"I  have  been  thinking  carefully,"  he  said,  "most 
carefully.  And  I  feel  that  you  are  right.  Perhaps  I 
owe  her  some  amends.  Do  you  know  of  any  quiet 
country  place?" 

Miss  Desmond  thought  Betty  had  perhaps  for  the 
moment  had  almost  enough  of  quiet  country  places. 

"She  is  very  anxious  to  learn  drawing,"  he  said, 


86          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"and  perhaps  if  I  permitted  her  to  do  so  she  might 
understand  it  as  a  sign  that  I  cherish  no  resentment  on 
account  of  what  has  passed.  But — " 

"I  know  the  very  thing,"  said  the  Aunt,  and  went  ori 
to  tell  of  Madame  Gautier,  of  her  cloistral  home  in 
Paris  where  she  received  a  few  favoured  young  girls, 
of  the  vigilant  maid  who  conducted  them  to  and  from 
their  studies,  of  the  quiet  villa  on  the  Marne  where  in 
the  summer  an  able  master — at  least  60  or  65  years  of 
age — conducted  sketching  parties,  to  which  the  stu- 
dents were  accompanied  either  by  Madame  herself,  or 
by  the  dragon-maid. 

"I'll  stand  the  child  six  months  with  her,"  she  said, 
"or  a  year  even.  So  it  won't  cost  you  anything.  And 
Madame  Gautier  is  in  London  now.  You  could  run  up 
and  talk  to  her  yourself." 

"Does  she  speak  English  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously,  and 
being  reassured  questioned  further. 

"And  you?"  he  asked.  And  when  he  heard  that 
Norway  for  a  month  and  then  America  en  route  for 
Japan  f  ormed  Miss  Desmond's  programme  for  the  next 
year  he  was  only  just  able  to  mask,  with  a  cough,  his 
deep  sigh  of  relief.  For,  however  much  he  might  re- 
spect her  judgment,  he  was  always  easier  when  Lizzie 
and  her  Aunt  Julia  were  not  together. 

He  went  up  to  town,  and  found  Madame  Gautier, 
the  widow  of  a  French  pastor,  established  in  a  Blooms- 
bury  boarding-house.  She  was  a  woman  after  his  own 
heart — severe,  simple,  earnest.  If  he  had  to  part  with 
his  Lizzie,  he  told  himself  in  the  returning  train,  it 
could  be  to  no  better  keeper  than  this. 

He  himself  announced  his  decision  to  Betty. 

"I  have  decided,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke  very  coldly 
because  it  was  so  very  difficult  to  speak  at  all,  "to  grant 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  87 

you  the  wish  you  expressed  some  time  ago.  You  shall 
go  to  Paris  and  learn  drawing." 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  said  Betty,  as  coldly  as  he. 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  saying  things  which  I  do 
not  mean." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Betty.  "I  will  work 
hard,  and  try  that  the  money  shan't  be  wasted." 

"Your  aunt  has  kindly  offered  to  pay  your  ex- 
penses." 

"When  do  I  go?"  asked  Betty. 

"As  soon  as  your  garments  can  be  prepared.  I  trust 
that  I  shall  not  have  cause  to  regret  the  confidence  I 
have  decided  to  place  in  you." 

His  phrasing  was  seldom  well-inspired.  Had  he 
said,  "I  trust  you,  my  child,  and  I  know  I  shan't  regret 
it,"  which  was  what  he  meant,  she  would  have  come  to 
meet  him  more  than  half-way.  As  it  was  she  said, 
"Thank  you !"  again,  and  left  him  without  more  words, 
He  sighed. 

"I  don't  believe  she  is  pleased  after  all ;  but  she  sees 
I  am  doing  it  for  her  good.  Now  it  comes  to  the  point 
her  heart  sinks  at  the  idea  of  leaving  home.  But  she 
will  understand  my  motives." 

The  one  thought  Betty  gave  him  was: 

"He  can't  bear  the  sight  of  me  at  all  now!  He's 
longing  to  be  rid  of  me !  Well,  thank  Heaven  I'm  go- 
ing to  Paris!  I  will  have  a  grass-lawn  dress  over 
green,  with  three  rows  of  narrow  lace  insertion,  and  a 
hat  with  yellow  roses  and — oh,  it  can't  be  true.  It's 
too  good  to  be  true.  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  to  be  hated 
sometimes,  by  some  people,  if  they  only  hate  you 

enough !" 

***** 

"  'So  you're  going  to  foreign  parts,  Miss,'  says  I." 


88  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Mrs.  Symes  had  flung  back  her  bonnet  strings  and  was 
holding  a  saucerful  of  boiling  tea  skilfully  poised  on 
the  fingers  of  one  hand.  "  'Yes,  Mrs.  Symes,'  says  she, 
'don't  you  wish  you  was  going  too  ?'  she  says.  And  she 
laughed,  but  I'm  not  easy  blinded,  and  well  I  see  as  she 
only  laughed  to  'ide  a  bleedin'  'art.  'Not  me,  Miss,' 
says  I;  'nice  figure  I  should  look  a-goin'  to  a  furrin' 
boardin'  school  at  my  time  of  life.' 

"  'It  ain't  boardin'  school/  says  she.  'I'm  a-going  to 
learn  to  paint  pictures.  I'll  paint  your  portrait  when  I 
come  home,'  says  she,  and  laughs  again — I  could  see 
she  done  it  to  keep  the  tears  back. 

"  Tm  sorry  for  you,  Miss,  I'm  sure,'  I  says,  not  to 
lose  the  chance  of  a  word  in  season,  "but  I  hope  it'll 
prove  a  blessing  to  you — I  do  that.' ' 

"  'Oh,  it'll  be  a  blessing  right  enough,'  says  she,  and 
keeps  on  laughing  a  bit  wild  like.  When  the  art's  full 
you  can't  always  stop  yourself.  She'd  a  done  better  to 
'ave  a  good  cry  and  tell  me  'er  troubles.  I  could  a 
cheered  her  up  a  bit  p'raps.  You  know  whether  I'm 
considered  a  comfort  at  funerals  and  christenings,  Mrs. 
James."  ...  •-••  -^":  ';'A'^O' 

"I  do,"  said  Mrs.  James' sadly;  "none  don't  know  it 
better."  :.-;v>-'V-:V  ;  •  ;r  ,:  " 

"You'd  a  thought  she'd  a  bin  glad  of  a  friend  in 
need.  But  no.  She  just  goes  on  a-laughing  fit  to  bring 
tears  to  your  eyes  to  hear  her,  and  says  she,  'I  hope 
you'll  all  get  on  all  right  without  me.'  " 

"I  hope  you  said  as  how  we  should  miss  her  some- 
thing dreadful,"  said  Mrs.  James  anxiously,  "Have 
another  cup."  •  •• 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  born 
loony?  Course  I  did.  Said  the  parish  wouldn't  be  the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  89 

same  without  her,  and  about  her  pretty  reading  and  all 
See  here  what  she  give  me." 

Mrs.  James  unrolled  a  violet  petticoat. 

"Good  as  new,  almost,"  she  said,  looking  critically 
at  the  hem.  "Specially  her  being  taller'n  me.  So 
what's  not  can  be  cut  away,  and  no  loss.  She  kep'  on 
a-laughing  an'  a-smiling  till  the  old  man  he  come  in 
and  he  says  in  his  mimicking  way,  'Lizzie,'  says  'e, 
'they're  a-waitin'  to  fit  on  your  new  walkin'  costoom,' 
he  says.  So  I  come  away,  she  a-smiling  to  the  last 
something  awful  to  see." 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  James. 

"But  you  mark  my  words — she  don't  deceive  me. 
If  ever  I  see  a  bruised  reed  and  a  broken  'art  on  a 
young  gell's  face  I  see  it  on  hers  this  day.  She  may 
laugh  herself  black  in  the  face,  but  she  won't  laugh  me 
into  thinking  what  I  knows  to  be  far  otherwise." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  James  resignedly,  "we  all  'as  it  to 
bear  one  time  or  another.  Young  gells  is  very  deceit- 
ful though,  in  their  ways,  ain't  they  ?" 


JBoob  2.— -(Efce 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  ONE  AND  THE  OTHER. 

"Some  idiot,"  remarked  Eustace  Vernon,  sipping 
Vermouth  at  a  little  table,  "insists  that,  if  you  sit  long 
enough  outside  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  you  will  see  every- 
one you  have  ever  known  or  ever  wanted  to  know  pass 
by.  I  have  sat  here  for  half-an-hour — and — voila." 

"You  met  me,  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  the  other 
man. 

"Oh,  you!"  said  Vernon  affectionately. 

"And  your  hat  has  gone  off  every  half  minute  ever 
since,"  said  the  other  man. 

"Ah,  that's  to  the  people  I've  known.  It's  the  peo- 
ple I've  wanted  to  know  that  are  the  rarity." 

"Do  you  mean  people  you  have  wanted  to  know  and 
not  known?" 

"There  aren't  many  of  those,"  said  Vernon ;  "no  it's 
—Jove,  that's  a  sweet  woman!" 

"I  hate  the  type,"  said  the  other  man  briefly:  "all 
clothes — no  real  human  being." 

The  woman  was  beautifully  dressed,  in  the  key 
whose  harmonies  are  only  mastered  by  Frenchwomen 
and  Americans.  She  turned  her  head  as  her  carriage 
passed,  and  Vernon's  hat  went  off  once  more. 

"I'd  forgotten  her  profile,"  said  Vernon,  "and  she's 
learned  how  to  dress  since  I  saw  her  last.  She's  quite 
human,  really,  and  as  charming  as  anyone  ought  to  be." 

93 


94  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"So  I  should  think,"  said  the  other  man.  "I'm  sorry 
I  said  that,  but  I  didn't  know  you  knew  her.  How's 
trade ?" 

"Oh,  I  did  a  picture— well,  but  a  picture !  I  did  it 
in  England  in  the  Spring..;.-. Best  thing  I've  done  yet. 
Come  and  see  it."  ^ 

"I  should  like  to!  look  you' up. '•.  Where  do  you  hang 

out?"  "  '^'.  .;'..„.. .:* 

"Eighty-six  bis  Rue"  Notre  Dame  des  Champs,"  said 
Vernon.  "Everyone  in  fiction  lives  there.  It's  the 
only  street  on  the  other  side  that  authors  seem  ever  to 
have  dreamed  of.  Still,  it's  convenient,  so  I  herd  there 
with  all  sorts  of  blackguards,  heroes  and  villains  and 
what  not.  Eighty-six  bis." 

"I'll  come,"  said  the  other  man,  slowly.  "Do  you 
know,  Vernon,  I'd  like  awfully  to  get  at  your  point  of 
view — your  philosophy  of  life?" 

"Haven't  you  got  one,  my  dear  chap! — 'sufficient 
unto'  is  my  motto.". 

"You  paint  pictures,"  the  other  went  on,  "so  very 
much  too  good  for  the  sort  of  life  you  lead." 

Vernon  laughed. 

"My  dear  Temple,"  he  said,  "I  live,  mostly,  the  life 
of  a  vestal  virgin." 

"You  know  well  enough  I'm  not  quarrelling  with  the 
way  you  spend  your  evenings,"  said  his  dear  Temple; 
"it's  your  whole  outlook  that  doesn't  match  your  work. 
Yet  there  must  be  some  relation  between  the  two,  that's 
what  I'd  like  to  get  at." 

There  is  a  bond  stronger  than  friendship,  stronger 
than  love — a  bond  that  cannot  be  forged  in  any  other 
shop  than  the  one — the  bond  between  old  schoolfellows. 
Vernon  had  sometimes  wondered  why  he  "stood  so 


95 

much"  from  Temple.  It  is  a  wonder  that  old  school- 
fellows often  feel,  mutually. 

"The  subject  you've  started,"  said  he,  "is  of  course, 
to  me,  the  most  interesting.  Please  develop  your 
thesis." 

"Well  then,  your  pictures  are  good,  strong,  thorough 
stuff,  with  sentiment — yes,  just  enough  sentiment  to 
keep  them  from  the  brutality  of  Degas  or  the  sensual- 
ism of  Latouche.  Whereas  you,  yourself,  seem  to  have 
no  sentiment." 

"I?  No  sentiment!  Oh,  Bobby,  this  is  too  much! 
Why,  I'm  a  mass  of  it !  Ask — " 

"Yes,  ask  any  woman  of  your  acquaintance.  That's 
just  it — or  just  part  of  it.  You  fool  them  into  think- 
ing— oh,  I  don't  know  what;  but  you  don't  fool  me." 

"I  haven't  tried." 

"Then  you're  not  brutal,  except  half  a  dozen  times 
in  the  year  when  you —  And  I've  noticed  that  when 
your  temper  goes  smash  your  morals  go  at  the  same 
time.  Is  that  cause  or  effect?  What's  the  real  you 
like,  and  where  do  you  keep  it?" 

"The  real  me,"  said  Vernon,  "is  seen  in  my  pic- 
tures, and — and  appreciated  by  my  friends;  you  for 
instance,  are,  I  believe,  genuinely  attached  to  me." 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Bobby. 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Vernon,  moving  his  iron  chair  to 
make  room  for  two  people  at  the  next  table,  "why  you 
should  expect  my  pictures  to  rhyme  with  my  life.  A 
man's  art  doesn't  rhyme  with  his  personality.  Most 
often  it  contradicts  flatly.  Look  at  musicians — 
what  a  divine  art,  and  what  pigs  of  high  priests !  And 
look  at  actors — but  no,  one  can't;  the  spectacle  is  too 
sickening." 

"I   sometimes  think,"  said  Temple,   emptying  his 


96  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

glass,  "that  the  real  you  isn't  made  yet.     It's  waiting 
for—" 

"For  the  refining  touch  of  a  woman's  hand,  eh?  You 
think  the  real  me  is— Oh,  Temple,  Temple,  I've  no 
heart  for  these  childish  imaginings!  The  real  me  is 
the  man  that  paints  pictures,  damn  good  pictures,  too, 
though  I  say  it." 

"And  is  that  what  all  the  women  think?" 
"Ask  them,  my  dear  chap;  ask  them.     They  won't 
tell  you  the  truth." 

"They're  not  the  only  ones  who  won't.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  you  really  think  of  women,  Vernon." 

"I  don't  think  about  them  at  all,"  lied  Vernon  equa- 
bly. "They  aren't  subjects  for  thought  but  for  emotion 
— and  even  of  that  as  little  as  may  be.  It's  impossible 
seriously  to  regard  a  woman  as  a  human  being;  she's 
merely  a  dear,  delightful,  dainty — " 
"Plaything?" 

"Well,  yes — or  rather  a  very  delicately  tuned  musi- 
cal instrument.  If  you  know  the  scales  and  the  com- 
mon chords,  you  can  improvise  nice  little  airs  and 
charming  variations.  She's  a  sort  of — well,  a  penny 
whistle,  and  the  music  you  get  depends  not  on  her  at 
all,  but  on  your  own  technique." 

"I've  never  been  in  love,"  said  Temple;  "not  seri- 
ously, I  mean,"  he  hastened  to  add,  for  Vernon  was 
smiling,  "not  a  life  or  death  matter,  don't  you  know; 
but  I  do  hate  the  way  you  talk,  and  one  of  these  days 
you'll  hate  it  too." 

Miss  Desmond's  warning  floated  up  through  the  dim 
waters  of  half  a  year. 

"So  a  lady  told  me,  only  last  Spring,"  he  said. 
"Well,  I'll  take  my  chance.  Going?  Well,  I'm  glad  we 
ran  across  each  other.  Don't  forget  to  look  me  up." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST  97 

Temple  moved  off,  and  Vernon  was  left  alone.  He 
sat  idly  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette,  and  watched 
the  shifting  crowd.  It  was  a  bright  October  day,  and 
the  crowd  was  a  gay  one. 

Suddenly  his  fingers  tightened  on  his  cigarette, — 
but  he  kept  the  hand  that  held  it  before  his  face,  and 
he  bent  his  head  forward. 

Two  ladies  were  passing,  on  foot.  One  was  the  elder 
Miss  Desmond — she  who  had  warned  him  that  one  of 
these  days  he  would  be  caught — and  the  other,  hanging 
lovingly  pn  her  aunt's  arm,  was,  of  course,  Betty.  But 
a  smart,  changed,  awakened  Betty!  She  was  dressed 
almost  as  beautifully  as  the  lady  whose  profile  he  had 
failed  to  recognise,  but  much  more  simply.  Her  eyes 
were  alight,  and  she  was  babbling  away  to  her  aunt. 
She  was  even  gesticulating  a  little,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  French  girl.  He  noted  the  well-gloved  hand  with 
which  she  emphasized  some  point  in  her  talk. 

"That's  the  hand,"  he  said,  "that  I  held  when  we  sat 
on  the  plough  in  the  shed  and  I  told  her  fortune." 

He  had  risen,  and  his  feet  led  him  along  the  road 
they  had  taken.  Ten  yards  ahead  of  him  he  saw  the 
swing  of  the  aunt's  serviceable  brown  skirt  and  beside 
it  Betty's  green  and  gray. 

"I  am  not  breaking  my  word,"  he  replied  to  the  In- 
ward Monitor.  "Who's  going  out  of  his  way  to  speak 
to  the  girl?" 

He  watched  the  brown  gown  and  the  green  all  the 
way  down  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  saw  them 
cross  the  road  and  go  up  the  steps  of  the  Madeleine. 
He  paused  at  the  corner.  It  was  hard,  certainly,  to 
keep  his  promise;  yet  so  far  it  was  easy,  because  he 
could  not  well  recall  himself  to  the  Misses  Desmond  on 
the  ground  of  his  having  six  months  ago  involved  the" 


98          THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

one  in  a  row  with  her  relations,  and  discussed  the  situa- 
tion afterwards  with  the  other. 

"I  do  wonder  where  they're  staying,  though,"  he 
told  himself.  "If  one  were  properly  introduced — ?" 
But  he  knew  that  the  aunt  would  consider  no  intro- 
duction a  proper  one  that  should  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Betty. 

"Wolf,  wolf,"  he  said,  "let  the  fold  alone !  There's 
no  door  for  you,  and  you've  pledged  your  sacred  word 
as  an  honourable  wolf  not  to  jump  any  more  hurdles." 

And  as  he  stood  musing,  the  elder  Miss  Desmond 
came  down  the  church  steps  and  walked  briskly  away. 

Some  men  would,  doubtless,  have  followed  her  ex- 
ample, if  not  her  direction.  Vernon  was  not  one  of 
these.  He  found  himself  going  up  the  steps  of  the 
great  church.  He  had  as  good  a  right  to  go  into  the 
Madeleine  as  the  next  man.  He  would  probably  not 
see  the  girl.  If  he  did  he  would  not  speak.  Almost 
certainly  he  would  not  even  see  her. 

But  Destiny  had  remembered  Mr.  Vernon  once 
more.  Betty  was  standing  just  inside  the  door,  her 
face  upturned,  and  all  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  The  mut- 
terings  of  the  organ  and  the  voices  of  boys  filled  the 
great  dark  building. 

He  went  and  stood  close  by  her.  He  would  not 
speak.  He  would  keep  his  word.  But  she  should  have 
a  chance  of  speaking.  His  eyes  were  on  her  face.  The 
hymn  ended.  She  exhaled  a  held  breath, /started  and 
spoke. 

"You?"  she  said,  "you?"  The  two  words  are 
spelled  alike.  Spoken,  they  are  capable  of  infinite  vari- 
ations. The  first  "you"  sent  Vernon's  blood  leaping. 
The  second  froze  it  to  what  it  had  been  before  he  met 
her.  For  indeed  that  little  unfinished  idyll  had  been 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          99 

almost  forgotten  by  the  man  who  sat  drinking  Ver- 
mouth outside  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix. 

"How  are  you?"  he  whispered.  "Won't  you  shake 
hands?" 

She  gave  him  a  limp  and  unresponsive  glove. 

"I  had  almost  forgotten  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  am 
glad  to  see  you — because — Come  to  the  door.  I  don't 
like  talking  in  churches." 

They  stood  on  the  steps  behind  one  of  the  great  pil- 
lars. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  wise  to  stand  here?"  he  said. 
"Your  aunt  might  see  us." 

"So  you  followed  us  in?"  said  Betty  with  perfect 
self-possession.  "That  was  very  kind.  I  have  often 
wished  to  see  you,  to  tell  you  how  much  obliged  I  am 
for  all  your  kindness  in  the  Spring.  I  was  only  a 
child  then,  and  I  didn't  understand,  but  now  I  quite 
see  how  good  it  was  of  you." 

"Why  do  you  talk  like  that?"  he  said.  "You  don't 
think — you  can't  think  it  was  my  fault  ?" 

"Your  fault!    What?" 

"Why,  your  father  finding  us  and — " 

"Oh,  that!"  she  said  lightly.  "Oh,  I  had  forgotten 
that!  Ridiculous,  wasn't  it?  No,  I  mean  your  kind- 
ness in  giving  so  many  hours  to  teaching  a  perfect  duf- 
fer. Well,  now  I've  seen  you  and  said  what  I  had  to 
say,  I  think  I'll  go  back." 

"No,  don't  go,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  know — oh,  all 
sorts  of  things!  I  can  see  your  aunt  from  afar,  and 
fly  if  she  approaches." 

"You  don't  suppose,"  said  Betty,  opening  her  eyes 
at  him,  "that  I  shan't  tell  her  I've  seen  you?" 

He  had  supposed  it,  and  cursed  his  clumsiness. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  she  went  on,  "ypu  think  I  should  de- 


ioo        THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

ceive  my  aunt  now  because  I  deceived  my  step-father  in 
the  Spring.  But  I  was  a  child  then, — and  besides,  I'm 
fond  of  my  aunt." 

"Did  you  know  that  she  came  to  see  me?" 

"Of  course.  You  seem  to  think  we  live  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  deceit,  Mr.  Vernon." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  said  bluntly,  for 
finer  weapons  seemed  useless.  "What  have  I  done  to 
make  you  hate  me?" 

"I  hate  you  ?  Oh,  no — not  in  the  least,"  said  Betty 
spitefully.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  all  your 
kindness." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  he  asked. 

"Hotel  Bete,"  said  Betty,  off  her  guard,  "but—" 

The  "but"  marked  his  first  score. 

"I  wish  I  could  have  called  to  see  your  aunt,"  he  said 
carelessly,  "but  I  am  off  to  Vienna  to-morrow." 

Betty  believed  that  she  did  not  change  countenance 
by  a  hair's  breadth. 

"I  hope  you'll  have  a  delightful  time,"  she  said  po- 
litely. 

"Thanks.  I  am  sure  I  shall.  The  only  consolation 
for  leaving  Paris  is  that  one  is  going  to  Vienna.  Are 
you  here  for  long?" 

"I  don't  know."    Betty  was  on  her  guard  again. 

"Paris  is  a  delightful  city,  isn't  it?" 

"Most  charming." 

"Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"No,  not  very  long." 

"Are  you  still  working  at  your  painting?  It  would 
be  a  pity  to  give  that  up." 

"I  am  not  working  just  now." 

"I  see  your  aunt,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Are  you 
going  to  send  me  away  like  this  ?  Don't  be  so  unjust, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         101 

so  ungenerous.  It's  not  like  you — my  pupil  of  last 
Spring  was  not  unjust." 

"Your  pupil  of  last  Spring  was  a  child  and  a  duffer, 
Mr.  Vernon,  as  I  said  before.  But  she  is  grateful  to 
you  for  one  thing — no,  two." 

"What's  the  other?"  he  asked  swiftly. 

"Your  drawing-lessons,"  she  demurely  answered. 

"Then  what's  the  one?" 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  went  down  the  steps  to 
meet  her  aunt.  He  effaced  himself  behind  a  pillar. 
In  spite  of  her  new  coldness,  he  could  not  believe  that 
she  would  tell  her  aunt  of  the  meeting.  And  he  was 
right,  though  Betty's  reasons  were  not  his  reasons. 

"What's  the  good?"  she  asked  herself  as  she  and 
her  aunt  walked  across  to  their  hotel.  "He's  going 
away  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  again. 
Well,  I  behaved  beautifully,  that's  one  thing.  He  must 
simply  loathe  me.  So  that's  all  right !  If  he  were  stay- 
ing on  in  Paris,  of  course  I  would  tell  her." 

She  believed  this  fully. 

He  waited  five  minutes  behind  that  pillar,  and  then 
had  himself  driven  to  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des 
Champs,  choosing  as  driver  a  man  with  a  white  hat,  in 
strict  accordance  with  the  advice  in  Baedeker,  though 
he  had  never  read  any  of  the  works  of  that  author. 

This  new  Betty,  with  the  smart  gown  and  the  dis- 
tant manner,  awoke  at  the  same  time  that  she  con- 
tradicted his  memories  of  the  Betty  of  Long  Barton. 
And  he  should  not  see  her  again.  Of  course  he  was 
not  going  to  Vienna,  but  neither  was  he  going  to  hang 
round  the  Hotel  Bete,  or  to  bribe  Franz  or  filise  to 
smuggle  notes  to  Miss  Betty. 

"It's  never  any  use  trying  to  join  things  on  again," 


102         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

he  told  himself.    "As  well  try  to  mend  a  spider's  web 
when  you  have  put  your  boot  through  it. 

'No  diver  brings  up  love  again 
Dropped  once     *     * 

In  such  cold  seas!' 

But  what  has  happened  ?  Why  does  she  hate  me  so  ? 
You  acted  very  nicely,  dear,  but  that  wasn't  indiffer- 
ence. It  was  hatred,  if  ever  I've  seen  it.  I  wonder 
what  it  means?  Another  lover?  No — then  she'd  be 
sorry  for  me.  It's  something  that  belongs  to  me — not 
another  man's  shadow.  But  what  I  shall  never  know. 
And  she's  prettier  than  ever,  too.  Oh,  hang  it!" 

His  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  on  the  door-mat 
shewed  the  white  square  of  an  envelope — a  note  from 
the  other  woman,  the  one  whose  profile  he  had  not  re- 
membered. She  was  in  Paris  for  a  time.  She  had 
seen  him  at  the  Paix,  had  wondered  whether  he  had 
his  old  rooms,  had  driven  straight  up  on  the  chance  of 
being  able  to  leave  this — wasn't  that  devotion? — and 
would  he  care  to  call  for  her  at  eight  and  they  could 
dine  somewhere  and  talk  over  old  times?  One  familiar 
initial,  that  of  her  first  name,  curled  in  the  corner  and 
the  card  smelt  of  jasmine — not  of  jasmine-scent  in  bot- 
tles, but  of  the  real  flower.  He  had  never  known  how 
she  managed  it. 

Vernon  was  not  fond  of  talking  over  old  times,  but 
Betty  would  be  dining  at  the  Hotel  Bete — some  dull 
hole,  no  doubt;  he  had  never  heard  of  it.  Well,  he 
could  not  dine  at  the  Bete,  and  after  all  one  must  dine 
somewhere.  And  the  other  woman  had  never  bored 
him.  That  is  a  terrible  weapon  in  the  hands  of  a  rival. 
And  Betty  had  been  most  unjust.  And  what  was  Betty 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         103 

to  him,  anyway?  His  thoughts  turned  to  the  Ameri- 
can girl  who  had  sketched  with  him  in  Brittany  that 
Summer.  Ah,  if  she  had  not  been  whisked  back  to 
New  York  by  her  people,  it  would  not  now  be  a  question 
of  Betty  or  of  the  Jasmine  lady.  He  took  out  Miss 
Van  Tromp's  portrait  and  sat  looking  at  it :  it  was  ad- 
mirable, the  fearless  poise  of  the  head,  the  laughing 
eyes,  the  full  pouting  lips.  Then  Betty's  face  and  the 
face  of  the  Jasmine  lady  came  between  him  and  Miss 
Van  Tromp. 

"Bah,"  he  said,  "smell,  kiss,  wear — at  last  throw 
away.  Never  keep  a  rose  till  it's  faded."  A  little  tide 
of  Breton  memories  swept  through  him. 

"Bah,"  he  said  again,  "she  was  perfectly  charming, 
but  what  is  the  use  of  charm,  half  the  world  away?" 

He  pulled  his  trunk  from  the  front  of  the  fire-place, 
pushed  up  the  iron  damper,  and  made  a  little  fire.  He 
burned  all  Miss  Van  Tromp's  letters,  and  her  photo- 
graph— but,  from  habit,  or  from  gratitude,  he  kissed  it 
before  he  burned  it. 

"Now,"  said  he  as  the  last  sparks  died  redly  on  the 
black  embers,  "the  decks  are  cleared  for  action.  Shall 
I  sentimentalise  about  Betty — cold,  cruel,  changed 
Betty — or  shall  I  call  for  the  Jasmine  lady  ?" 

He  did  both,  and  the  Jasmine  lady  might  have  found 
him  dull.  As  it  happened,  she  only  found  him  distrait, 
and  that  interested  her. 

"When  we  parted,"  she  said,  "it  was  I  who  was  in 
tears.  Now  it's  you.  What  is  it?" 

"If  I  am  in  tears,"  he  roused  himself  to  say,  "it  is 
only  because  everything  passes,  'tout  lasse,  tout  passe, 
tout  casse.' ' 

"What's  broken  now?"  she  asked;  "another  heart? 
Oh,  yes!  you  broke  mine  all  to  little,  little  bits.  But 


104        THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

I've  mended  it.  I  wanted  frightfully  to  see  you  to 
thank  you ! 

"This  is  a  grateful  day  for  women,"  thought  Ver- 
non,  looking  the  interrogatory. 

"Why,  for  showing  me  how  hearts  are  broken,"  she 
explained;  "it's  quite  easy  when  you  know  how,  and 
it's  a  perfectly  delightful  game.  I  play  it  myself  now, 
and  I  can't  imagine  how  I  ever  got  on  before  I  learned 
the  rules." 

"You  forget,"  he  said,  smiling.  "It  was  you  who 
broke  my  heart.  And  it's  not  mended  yet." 

"That's  very  sweet  of  you.  But  really,  you  know, 
I'm  very  glad  it  was  you  who  broke  my  heart,  and  not 
anyone  else.  Because,  now  it's  mended,  that  gives  us 
something  to  talk  about.  We  have  a  past.  That's 
really  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  And  that's  such  a 
bond,  isn't  it?  When  it  really  is  past — dead,  you  know, 
no  nonsense  about  cataleptic  trances,  but  stone  dead." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  link.  But  it  isn't  the  past  for 
me,  you  know.  It  can  never — " 

She  held  up  a  pretty  jewelled  hand. 

"Now,  don't,"  she  said.  "That's  just  what  you  don't 
understand.  All  that's  out  of  the  picture.  I  know  you 
too  well.  Just  realize  that  I'm  the  only  nice  woman 
you  know  who  doesn't  either  expect  you  to  make  love 
to  her  in  the  future  or  hate  you  for  having  done  it  in 
the  past,  and  you'll  want  to  see  me  every  day.  Think 
of  the  novelty  of  it." 

"I  do  and  I  do,"  said  he,  "and  I  won't  protest  any 
more  while  you're  in  this  mood.  Bear  with  me  if  I 
seem  idiotic  to-night — I've  been  burning  old  letters, 
and  that  always  makes  me  like  a  funeral." 

"Old  letters— mine?" 

"I  burned  yours  long  ago." 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        105 

"And  it  isn't  two  years  since  we  parted !  How  many 
have  there  been  since?" 

"Is  this  the  Inquisition  or  is  it  Durand's?" 

"It's  somewhere  where  we  both  are,"  she  said,  with- 
out a  trace  of  sentiment ;  "that's  good  enough  for  me. 
Do  you  know  I've  been  married  since  I  saw  you  last? 
And  left  a  widow — in  a  short  three  months  it  all  hap- 
pened. And — well  I'm  not  very  clever,  as  you  know, 
but — can  you  imagine  what  it  is  like  to  be  married  to 
a  man  who  doesn't  understand  a  single  word  you  say, 
unless  it's  about  the  weather  or  things  to  eat?  No, 
don't  look  shocked.  He  was  a  good  fellow,  and  very 
happy  till  the  motor  accident  took  him  and  left  me 
this." 

She  shewed  a  scar  on  her  smooth  arm. 

"What  a  woman  it  is  for  surprises !  So  he  was  very 
happy?  But  of  course  he  was." 

"Yes,  of  course,  as  you  say.  I  was  a  model  wife.  I 
wore  black  for  a  whole  year  too !" 

"Why  did  you  marry  him?" 

"Well,  at  the  time  I  thought  you  might  hear  of  it 
and  be  disappointed,  or  hurt,  or  something." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Vernon  with  truth. 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  she.  "You'll  find  me  much 
nicer  now  I  don't  want  to  disappoint  you  or  hurt  you, 
but  only  to  have  a  good  time,  and  there's  no  nonsense 
about  love  to  get  in  the  way,  and  spoil  everything." 

"So  you're — But  this  isn't  proper!  Here  am  I  din- 
ing with  a  lady  and  I  don't  even  know  her  name !" 

"I  know — I  wouldn't  put  it  to  the  note.  Didn't  that 
single  initial  arouse  your  suspicions  ?  Her  name  ?  Her 
title  if  you  please!  I  married  Harry  St.  Craye.  You 
remember  how  we  used  to  laugh  at  him  together." 


io6        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"That  little — I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  St.  Craye/' 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum :  of  the 
dead  nothing  but  the  bones.  If  he  had  lived  he  would 
certainly  have  beaten  me.  Here's  to  our  new  friend- 
ship!" 

"Our  new  friendship !"  he  repeated,  raising  his  glass 
and  looking  in  her  eyes.  Lady  St.  Craye  looked  very 
beautiful,  and  Betty  was  not  there.  In  fact,  just  now 
there  was  no  Betty. 

He  went  back  to  his  room  humming  a  song  of 
Yvette  Guilbert's.  There  might  have  been  no  flower- 
ing May,  no  buttercup  meadows  in  all  the  world,  for 
any  thought  of  memory  that  he  had  of  them.  And 
Betty  was  a  thousand  miles  away. 

That  was  at  night.  In  the  morning  Betty  was  at  the 
Hotel  Bete,  and  the  Hotel  Bete  was  no  longer  a  petty 
little  hotel  which  he  did  not  know  and  never  should 
know.  For  the  early  post  brought  him  a  letter  which 
said: 

"I  am  in  Paris  for  a  few  days  and  should  like  to  see 
you  if  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  call  at  my  hotel 
on  Thursday." 

This  was  Tuesday. 

The  letter  was  signed  with  the  name  of  the  uncle 
from  whom  Vernon  had  expectations,  and  at  the  head 
of  the  letter  was  the  address : 
"Hotel  Bete, 

Cite  de  Retraite, 

Rue  Boissy  d' Anglais." 

"Now  bear  witness !"  cried  Vernon,  appealing  to  the 
Universe,  "bear  witness  that  this  is  not  my  fault!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  OPPORTUNITY. 

Vernon  in  those  two  days  decided  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  see  Betty  again.  She  was  angry  with  him,  and, 
though  he  never  for  an  instant  distrusted  his  power  to 
dissipate  the  cloud,  he  felt  that  the  lifting  of  it  would 
leave  him  and  her  in  that  strong  light  wherein  the  frail 
flower  of  sentiment  must  wither  and  perish.  Explica- 
tions were  fatal  to  the  delicate  mystery,  the  ethereal 
half-lights,  that  Vernon  loved.  Above  all  things  he 
detested  the  trap  dit. 

Already  a  mood  of  much  daylight  was  making  him 
blink  and  shrink.  He  saw  himself  as  he  was — or 
nearly — and  the  spectacle  did  not  please  him.  The 
thought  of  Lady  St.  Craye  was  the  only  one  that 
seemed  to  make  for  any  sort  of  complacency.  The 
thought  of  Temple  rankled  oddly. 

"He  likes  me,  and  he  dislikes  himself  for  liking  me. 
Why  does  he  like  me?  Why  does  anyone  like  me? 
I'm  hanged  if  I  know !" 

This  was  the  other  side  of  his  mood  of  most  days, 
when  the  wonder  seemed  that  everyone  should  not  like 
him.  Why  shouldn't  they?  Ordinarily  he  was  hanged 
if  he  knew  that. 

He  had  expected  a  note  from  Lady  St.  Craye  to  fol- 
low up  his  dinner  with  her.  He  knew  how  a  woman 
rarely  resists  the  temptation  to  write  to  the  man  in 

107 


io8        THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

whom  she  is  interested,  even  while  his  last  words  are 
still  ringing  in  her  ears.  But  no  note  came,  and  he 
concluded  that  Lady  St.  Craye  was  not  interested. 
This  reassured  while  it  piqued. 

The  Hotel  Bete  is  very  near  the  Madeleine,  and  very 
near  the  heart  of  Paris — of  gay  Paris,  that  is, — yet  it 
might  have  been  a  hundred  miles  from  anywhere.  You 
go  along  the  Rue  Boissy,  and  stopping  at  a  gateway 
you  turn  into  a  dreary  paved  court,  which  is  the  Cite 
de  la  Retraite.  Here  the  doors  of  the  Hotel  Bete  open 
before  you  like  the  portals  of  a  mausoleum.  There  is 
no  greeting  from  the  Patronne;  your  arrival  gives  rise 
to  no  pleasant  welcoming  bustle.  The  concierge  re- 
ceives you,  and  you  see  at  once  that  her  cheerful  smile 
is  assumed.  No  one  could  really  be  cheerful  at  the 
Hotel  Bete. 

Vernon  felt  as  though  he  was  entering  a  family  vault 
of  the  highest  respectability  when  he  passed  through  its 
silent  hall  and  enquired  for  Mr.  James  Vernon. 

Monsieur  Vernon  was  out.  No,  he  had  charged  no 
one  with  a  billet  for  monsieur.  Monsieur  Vernon 
would  doubtless  return  for  the  dejeuner;  it  was  certain 
that  he  would  return  for  the  diner.  Would  Monsieur 
wait? 

Monsieur  waited,  in  a  little  stiff  salon  with  glass 
doors,  prim  furniture,  and  an  elaborately  ornamental 
French  clock.  It  was  silent,  of  course.  One  wonders 
sometimes  whether  ornamental  French  Ormolu  clocks 
have  any  works,  or  are  solid  throughout.  For  no  one 
has  ever  seen  one  of  them  going. 

There  were  day-old  English  papers  on  the  table,  and 
the  New  York  Herald.  Through  the  glass  doors  he 
could  see  everyone  Who  came  in  or  went  out.  And  he 
saw  no  one.  There  was  a  stillness  as  of  the  tomb. 


THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST         109 

Even  the  waiter,  now  laying  covers  for  the  dejeuner, 
wore  list  slippers  and  his  movements  were  silent  as  a 
heron's  ghost-gray  flight. 

He  came  to  the  glass  door  presently. 

"Did  Monsieur  breakfast?" 

Vernon  was  not  minded  to  waste  two  days  in  the 
pursuit  of  uncles.  Here  he  was,  and  here  he  stayed, 
till  Uncle  James  should  appear. 

Yes,  decidedly,  Monsieur  breakfasted. 

He  wondered  where  the  clients  of  the  hotel  had 
hidden  themselves.  Were  they  all  dead,  or  merely 
sight-seeing?  As  his  watch  shewed  him  the  approach 
of  half-past  twelve  he  found  himself  listening  for  the 
tramp  of  approaching  feet,  the  rustle  of  returning 
skirts.  And  still  all  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

The  sudden  summoning  sound  of  a  bell  roused  him 
from  a  dreamy  wonder  as  to  whether  Betty  and  her 
aunt  had  already  left.  If  not,  should  he  meet  them  at 
dejeuner?  The  idea  of  the  possible  meeting  amused 
more  than  it  interested  him.  He  crossed  the  hall  and 
entered  the  long  bare  salle  a  manger. 

By  Heaven — he  was  the  only  guest !  A  cover  was 
laid  for  him  only — no,  at  a  distance  of  half  the  table 
for  another.  Then  Betty  and  her  aunt  had  gone. 
Well,  so  much  the  better. 

He  unfolded  his  table-napkin.  In  another  moment, 
doubtless,  Uncle  James  would  appear  to  fill  the  vacant 
place. 

But  in  another  moment  the  vacant  place  was  filled — 
and  by  Betty — Betty  alone,  unchaperoned,  and  brist- 
ling with  hostility.  She  bowed  very  coldly,  but  she 
was  crimson  to  the  ears.  He  rose  and  carne  to  her 
holding  out  his  hand. 


i  io        THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

With  the  waiter  looking  on,  Betty  had  to  give  hers, 
but  she  gave  it  in  a  way  that  said  very  plainly : 

"I  am  very  surprised  and  not  at  all  pleased  to  see 
you  here." 

"This  is  a  most  unexpected  pleasure,"  he  said  very 
distinctly,  and  added  the  truth  about  his  uncle. 

"Has  Monsieur  Vernon  yet  returned  ?"  he  asked  the 
waiter  who  hovered  anxiously  near. 

"No,  Monsieur  was  not  yet  of  return." 

"So  you  see,"  his  look  answered  the  speech  of  her 
hand,  "it  is  not  my  doing  in  the  least." 

"I  hope  your  aunt  is  well,"  he  went  on,  the  waiter 
handing  baked  eggs  the  while. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  Betty.  "And  how  is 
your  wife?  I  ought  to  have  asked  yesterday,  but  I 
forgot." 

"My  wife?" 

"Oh,  perhaps  you  aren't  married  yet.  Of  course  my 
father  told  me  of  your  engagement." 

She  crumbled  bread  and  smiled  pleasantly. 

"So  that's  it,"  thought  Vernon.  "Fool  that  I  was 
to  forget  it!" 

"I  am  not  married,"  he  said  coldly,  "nor  have  I  ever 
been  engaged  to  be  married." 

And  he  ate  eggs  stolidly  wondering  what  her  next 
move  would  be.  It  was  one  that  surprised  him.  For 
she  leaned  towards  him  and  said  in  a  perfectly  new 
voice : 

"Couldn't  you  get  Franz  to  move  you  a  little  more 
this  way?  One  can't  shout  across  these  acres  of  table- 
cloth, and  I've  heaps  of  things  to  tell  you." 

He  moved  nearer,  and  once  again  he  wronged  Betty 
by  a  mental  shrinking.  Was  she  really  going  to  own 
that  she  had  resented  the  news  of  his  engagement  ?  She 


0 
I         -t^m>j 


Ah,  don't  be  cross! '  she  said 


THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST        in 

was  really  hopeless.     He  began  to  bristle  defensively. 

"Anything  you  care  to  tell  me  will  of  course  be  of 
the  greatest  possible  interest,"  he  was  beginning,  but 
Betty  interrupted  him. 

"Ah,  don't  be  cross!"  she  said.  "I  know  I  was  per- 
fectly horrid  yesterday,  but  I  own  I  was  rather  hurt." 

"Hold  back,"  he  adjured  her,  inwardly,  "for  Heav- 
en's sake,  hold  back!" 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "you  and  I  were  such  good 
friends — you'd  been  so  kind — and  you  told  me — you 
talked  to  me  about  things  you  didn't  talk  of  to  other 
people, — and  when  I  thought  you'd  told  my  step-father 
a  secret  of  yours  that  you'd  never  told  me,  of  course  I 
felt  hurt — anyone  would  have." 

"I  see,"  said  he,  beginning  to. 

"Of  course  I  never  dreamed  that  he'd  lied,  and  even 
now  I  don't  see — "  Then  suddenly  she  did  see  and 
crimsoned  again. 

"He  didn't  lie,"  said  Vernon  carefully,  "it  was  I. 
But  I  would  never  have  told  him  anything  that  I 
wouldn't  have  told  you — nor  half  that  I  did  tell  you." 

The  waiter  handed  pale  meat. 

"Yes,  the  scenery  in  Brittany  is  most  charming;  I 
did  some  good  work  there.  The  people  are  so  primi- 
tive and  delightful  too." 

The  waiter  withdrew,  and  Betty  said: 

"How  do  you  mean — he  didn't  lie?" 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Vernon,  "he — he  did  not  under- 
stand our  friendship  in  the  least.  I  imagine  friendship 
was  not  invented  when  he  was  young.  It's  a  tiresome 
subject,  Miss  Desmond;  let's  drop  it — shall  we?" 

"If  you  like,"  said  she,  chilly  as  December. 

"Oh,  well  then,  just  let  me  say  it  was  done  for  your 
sake,  Miss  Desmond.  He  had  no  idea  that  two  people 


ii2        THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

should  have  any  interests  in  common  except — except 
matters  of  the  heart,  and  the  shortest  way  to  convince 
him  was  to  tell  him  that  my  heart  was  elsewhere.  I 
don't  like  lies,  but  there  are  some  people  who  insist  on 
lies — nothing  else  will  convince  them  of  the  truth. 
Here  comes  some  abhorrent  preparation  of  rice.  How 
goes  it  with  art?" 

"I  have  been  working  very  hard,"  she  said,  "but 
every  day  I  seem  to  know  less  and  less." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!  It's  only  that  every  day  one 
knows  more  and  more — of  how  little  one  does  know. 
You'll  have  to  pass  many  milestones  before  you  pass 
out  of  that  state.  Do  they  always  feed  you  like  this 
here?" 

"Some  days  it's  custard,"  said  Betty,  "but  we've 
only  been  here  a  week." 

"We're  friends  again  now,  aren't  we?"  he  ques- 
tioned suddenly. 

"Yes— oh,  yes!" 

"Then  I  may  ask  questions.  I  want  to  hear  what 
you've  been  doing  since  we  parted,  and  where  you've 
been,  and  how  you  come  to  Paris — and  where  your 
aunt  is,  and  what  she'll  say  to  me  when  she  comes  in." 

"She  likes  you,"  said  Betty,  "and  she  won't  come  in, 
but  Madame  Gautier  will.  Aunt  Julia  went  off  this 
morning — she  couldn't  delay  any  longer  because  of 
catching  the  P.  &  O.  at  Brindisi ;  and  I'm  to  wait  here 
till  Madame  Gautier  comes  at  three.  Auntie  came  all 
the  way  back  from  America  to  see  whether  I  was 
happy  here.  She  is  a  dear!" 

"And  who  is  Madame  Gautier?  Is  she  also  a  dear? 
But  let's  have  our  coffee  in  the  salon — and  tell  me 
everything  from  the  beginning." 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  "oh,  yes!" 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        113 

But  the  salon  window  was  darkened  by  a  passing 
shape. 

"My  uncle,  bless  him!"  said  Vernon.  "I  must  go. 
See,  here's  my  card !  Won't  you  write  and  tell  me  all 
about  everything?  You  will,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  you  musn't  write  to  me.  Madame  Gautier 
opens  all  our  letters,  and  friendships  weren't  invented 
when  she  was  young  either.  Good-bye." 

Vernon  had  to  go  towards  the  strong  English  voice 
that  was  filling  the  hall  with  its  inquiries  for  "Ung 
Mossoo — ung  mossoo  Anglay  qui  avoir  certainmong 
etty  icy  ce  mattan." 

Five  minutes  later  Betty  saw  two  figures  go  along 
the  pavement  on  the  other  side  of  the  decorous  em- 
broidered muslin  blinds  which,  in  the  unlikely  event  of 
any  happening  in  the  Cite  de  la  Retraite,  ensure  its  not 
being  distinctly  seen  by  those  who  sojourn  at  the  Hotel 
Bete. 

Betty  instantly  experienced  that  feminine  longing 
which  makes  women  write  to  lovers  or  friends  from 
whom  they  have  but  now  parted,  and  she  was  weaker 
than  Lady  St.  Craye.  There  was  nothing  to  do.  Her 
trunks  were  packed.  She  had  before  her  two  hours, 
or  nearly,  of  waiting  for  Madame  Gautier.  So  she 
wrote,  and  this  is  the  letter,  erasures  and  all.  Vernon, 
when  he  got  it,  was  most  interested  in  the  erasures  here 
given  in  italics. 
Dear  Mr.  Vernon : 

I  am  very  glad  we  are  good  friends  again,  and  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  everything  that  has  happened. 
(After  you,  after  he — when  my  step-father}.  After 
the  last  time  I  saw  you  (7  was  very  unhappy  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  go  to  Paris}  I  was  very  anxious  to 
go  to  Paris  because  of  what  you  had  said.  My  aunt 


ii4        THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

came  down  and  was  very  kind.  (She  told  me)  She 
persuaded  my  step-father  to  let  me  go.  I  think  (we) 
he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  me,  for  (somehow)  he  never 
did  care  about  me,  any  more  than  I  did  about  him. 
There  are  a  great  many  (other)  things  that  he  does  not 
understand.  Of  course  I  was  wild  with  joy  and 
thought  of  nothing  but  (what  you}  work,  and  my 
aunt  brought  me  over.  But  I  did  not  see  anything  of 
Paris  then.  We  went  straight  on  to  Joinville  where 
Madame  Gautier  has  a  villa,  and  (we)  my  aunt  left 
me  there,  and  went  to  Norway.  It  was  all  very  strange 
at  first,  but  I  liked  it.  Madame  Gautier  is  very  strict ; 
it  was  like  being  at  school.  Sometimes  I  almost  (for- 
got) fancied  that  I  was  at  school  again.  There  were 
three  other  girls  besides  me,  and  we  had  great  fun. 
The  Professor  was  very  nice  and  encouraging.  He  is 
very  old.  So  is  everybody  who  comes  to  the  house — 
(but)  it  (was)  is  jolly,  because  when  there  are  four  of 
you  everything  is  so  interesting.  We  used  to  have 
picnics  in  the  woods,  and  take  it  in  turn  to  ride  in  the 
donkey-cart.  And  there  were  musical  evenings  with 
the  Pastor  and  the  Avocat  and  their  wives.  It  was 
very  amusing  sometimes.  Madame  Gautier  had  let 
her  Paris  flat,  so  we  stayed  at  Joinville  till  a  week  ago, 
and  then  my  Aunt  walked  in  one  day  and  took  me  to 
Paris  for  a  week.  I  did  enjoy  that.  And  now  aunt  has 
gone,  and  Madame  Gautier  is  taking  the  inventory  and 
getting  the  keys,  and  presently  she  will  come  for  me, 
I  shall  go  with  her  to  the  Rue  Vaugirard,  Number  62. 
It  will  be  very  nice  seeing  the  other  girls  again  and 
telling  them  all  about  (everything)  my  week  in  Paris. 
I  am  so  sorry  that  I  shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again,  but  I  am  glad  we  met — because  I 


THE   INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        115 

do  not  like  to  think  my  friends  do  not  trust  me. 

Yours  sincerely, 

BETTY  DESMOND. 

That  was  the  letter  which  Betty  posted.  But  the  first 
letter  she  wrote  was  quite  different.  It  began : 

"You  don't  know,  you  never  will  know  what  it  is  to 
me  to  know  that  you  did  not  deceive  me.  My  dear 
friend,  my  only  friend!  And  how  I  treated  you  yes- 
terday! And  how  nobly  you  forgave  me.  I  shall  see 
you  again.  I  must  see  you  again.  No  one  else  has 
ever  understood  me."  And  so  on  to  the  "True  and  con- 
stant friend  Betty." 

She  burned  this  letter. 

"The  other  must  go,"  she  said,  "that's  the  worst  of 
life.  If  I  sent  the  one  that's  really  written  as  I  feel 
he'd  think  I  was  in  love  with  him  or  some  nonsense. 
But  a  child  who  was  just  in  two  syllables  might  have 
written  the  other.  So  that's  all  right." 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  The  same  silver  watch 
with  which  she  had  once  crossed  the  hand  of  one  who 
told  her  fortune. 

"How  silly  all  that  was !"  she  said.  "I  have  learned 
wisdom  now.  Nearly  half-past  three.  I  never  knew 
Madame  late  before." 

And  now  Betty  began  to  watch  the  windows  for  the 
arrival  of  her  chaperone;  and  four  o'clock  came,  and 
five,  but  no  Madame  Gautier. 

She  went  out  at  last  and  asked  to  see  the  Patronne, 
and  to  her  she  explained  in  a  French  whose  fluency 
out-ran  its  correctness,  that  a  lady  was  to  have  called 
for  her  at  three.  It  was  now  a  quarter  past  five.  What 
did  Madame  think  she  should  do? 

Madame  was  lethargic  and  uninterested.     She  had 


n6        THE   INCOMPLETE   AMORIST 

no  idea.  She  could  not  advise.  Probably  Mademoi- 
selle would  do  well  to  wait  always. 

The  concierge  was  less  aloof. 

But  without  doubt  Madame,  Mademoiselle's  friend 
had  forgotten  the  hour.  She  would  arrive  later,  cer- 
tainly. If  not,  Mademoiselle  could  stay  the  night  at 
the  hotel,  where  a  young  lady  would  be  perfectly  well, 
and  go  to  Madame  her  friend  in  the  morning. 

But  Betty  was  not  minded  to  stay  the  night  alone  at 
the  Hotel  Bete.  For  one  thing  she  had  very  little 
money, — save  that  in  the  fat  envelope  addressed  to 
Madame  Gautier  which  her  aunt  had  given  her.  It 
contained,  she  knew,  the  money  to  pay  for  her  board 
and  lessons  during  the  next  six  months,  — for  the  elder 
Miss  Desmond  was  off  to  India,  Japan  and  Thibet,  and 
her  horror  of  banks  and  cheques  made  her  very  down- 
right in  the  matter  of  money.  That  in  the  envelope 
was  all  Betty  had,  and  that  was  Maclame  Gautier's. 
But  the  other  part  of  the  advice — to  go  to  Madame 
Gautier's  in  the  morning?  If  in  the  morning,  why 
not  now? 

She  decided  to  go  now.  No  one  opposed  the  idea 
much.  Only  Franz  seemed  a  little  disturbed  and  the 
concierge  tepidly  urged  patience. 

But  Betty  was  fretted  by  waiting.  Also  she  knew 
that  Vernon  and  his  uncle  might  return  at  any  mo- 
ment. And  it  would  perhaps  be  awkward  for  him  to 
find  her  there — she  would  not  for  the  world  cause  him 
a  moment's  annoyance.  Besides  he  might  think  she  had 
waited  on  the  chance  of  seeing  him  again.  That  was 
not  to  be  borne. 

"I  will  return  and  take  my  trunks,"  she  said;  and 
a  carriage  was  called. 


There  was  something  very  exhilarating  in  driving 
through  the  streets  of  Paris,  alone,  in  a  nice  little  car- 
riage with  fat  pneumatic  tires.  The  street  lamps  were 
alight,  and  the  shops  not  yet  closed.  Almost  every 
house  seemed  to  be  a  shop. 

"I  wonder  where  all  the  people  live/'  said  Betty. 

The  Place  de  la  Concorde  delighted  her  with  its 
many  lamps  and  its  splendid  space. 

"How  glorious  it  would  be  to  live  alone  in  Paris," 
she  thought,  "be  driven  about  in  cabs  just  when  one 
liked  and  where  one  liked !  Oh,  I  am  tired  of  being  a 
school-girl !  I  suppose  they  won't  let  me  be  grown  up 
till  I'm  so  old  I  shall  wish  I  was  a  school-girl  again." 

She  loved  the  river  with  its  reflected  lights, — but  it 
made  her  shudder,  too. 

"Of  course  I  shall  never  be  allowed  to  see  the 
Morgue,"  she  said;  "they  won't  let  me  see  anything 
real.  Even  this  little  teeny  tiny  bit  of  a  drive,  I  dare- 
say it's  not  comme  il  faut !  I  do  hope  Madame  won't 
be  furious.  She  couldn't  expect  me  to  wait  forever. 
Perhaps,  too,  she's  ill,  and  no  one  to  look  after  her. 
Oh,  I'm  sure  I'm  right  to  go." 

The  doubt,  however,  grew  as  the  carriage  jolted 
through  narrower  streets,  and  when  it  drew  up  at  an 
open  carriage-door,  Betty  jumped  out,  paid  the  coach- 
man, and  went  in  quite  prepared  to  be  scolded. 

She  went  through  the  doorway  and  stood  looking 
for  the  list  of  names  such  as  are  set  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  leading  to  flats  in  London.  There  was  no  such 
list.  From  a  lighted  doorway  on  the  right  came  a  babel 
of  shrill,  high-pitched  voices,  Betty  looked  in  at  the 
door  and  the  voices  ceased. 

"Pardon,  Madame,"  said  Betty.  "I  seek  Madame 
Gautier." 


n8          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Everyone  in  the  crowded  stuffy  lamplit  little  room 
drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Mademoiselle  is  without  doubt  one  of  Madame's 
young  ladies?" 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sudden  hushing  of  the  raised 
voices,  perhaps  it  was  something  in  the  flushed  faces 
that  all  turned  towards  her.  To  her  dying  day  Betty 
will  never  know  why  she  did  not  say  "Yes."  What 
she  did  say  was : 

"I  am  a  friend  of  Madame's.    Is  she  at  home?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle, — she  is  not  at  home;  she  will 
never  be  at  home  more,  the  poor  lady.  She  is  dead, 
Mademoiselle — an  accident,  one  of  those  cursed  auto- 
mobiles ran  over  her  at  her  very  door,  Mademoiselle, 
before  our  eyes." 

Betty  felt  sick. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "it  is  very  sudden." 

"Will  Mademoiselle  leave  her  name?"  the  concierge 
asked  curiously.  "The  brother  of  Madame,  he  is  in 
the  commerce  at  Nantes.  A  telegramme  has  been  sent 
— he  arrives  to-morrow  morning.  He  will  give  Made- 
moiselle details." 

Again  Betty  said  what  she  had  not  intended  to  say. 
She  said : 

"Miss  Brown."  Perhaps  the  brother  in  the  com- 
merce vaguely  suggested  the  addition,  "of  Manches- 
ter." 

Then  she  turned  away,  and  got  out  of  the  light  into 
the  friendly  dusk  of  the  street. 

"Tiens,  but  it  is  droll,"  said  the  concierge's  friend, 
"a  young  girl,  and  all  alone  like  that." 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  said  the  concierge;  "the  Eng- 
lish are  mad — all !  Their  young  girls  run  the  streets 
at  all  hours,  and  the  Devil  guards  them." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          119 

Betty  stood  in  the  street.  She  could  not  go  back 
to  that  circle  of  harpy  faces,  all  eagerly  tearing  to  pieces 
the  details  of  poor  old  Madame  Gautier's  death.  She 
must  be  alone — think.  She  would  have  to  write  home. 
Her  father  would  come  to  fetch  her.  Her  aunt  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  appeal.  Her  artist-life  would  be 
over.  Everything  would  be  over.  She  would  be 
dragged  back  to  the  Parishing  and  the  Mothers'  meet- 
ings and  the  black-cotton-covered  books  and  the  Sun- 
day School. 

And  she  would  never  have  lived  in  Paris  at  all ! 

She  walked  down  the  street. 

"I  can't  think — I  must  think!  I'll  have  this  night 
to  myself  to  think  in,  anyway.  I'll  go  to  some  cheap 
hotel.  I  have  enough  for  that." 

She  hailed  a  passing  carriage,  drove  to  the  Hotel 
Bete,  took  her  luggage  to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  left 
it  there. 

Then  as  she  stood  on  the  station  step,  she  felt  some- 
thing in  her  hand.  It  was  the  fat  letter  addressed  to 
Madame  Gautier.  And  she  knew  it  was  fat  with  bank 
notes. 

She  unfastened  her  dress  and  thrust  the  letter  into 
her  bosom,  buttoning  the  dress  carefully  over  it. 

"But  I  won't  go  to  my  hotel  yet,"  she  said.  "I 
won't  even  look  for  one.  I'll  see  Paris  a  bit  first." 

She  hailed  a  coachman. 

"Go,"  she  said,  "to  some  restaurant  in  the  Latin 
Quarter — where  the  art  students  eat." 

"And  I'm  alone  in  Paris,  and  perfectly  free,"  said 
Betty,  leaning  back  on  the  cushions.  "No,  I  won't  tell 
my  coachman  to  drive  along  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des 
Champs,  wherever  that  is.  Oh,  it  is  glorious  to  be 
perfectly  free.  Oh,  poor  Madame  Gautier!  Oh  dear, 


120         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

oh  dear!"  She  held  her  breath  and  wondered  why 
she  could  feel  sorry. 

"You  are  a  wretch,"  she  said,  "poor  Madame  was 
kind  to  you  in  her  hard  narrow  way,  and  now  is  she 
lying  cold  and  dead,  all  broken  up  by  that  cruel  motor 
car." 

The  horror  of  the  picture  helped  by  Betty's  excite- 
ment brought  the  tears  and  she  encouraged  them. 

"It  is  something  to  find  one  is  not  entirely  heartless," 
she  said  at  last,  drying  her  eyes,  as  the  carriage  drew 
up  at  a  place  where  there  were  people  and  voices  and 
many  lights. 


CHAPTER  X. 
SEEING  LIFE. 

The  thoughts  of  the  two  who  loved  her  were  with 
Betty  that  night.  The  aunt,  shaken,  jolted,  enduring 
much  in  the  Paris,  Lyons  and  Mediterranean  express 
thought  fondly  of  her. 

"She's  a  nice  little  thing.  I  must  take  her  about  a 
bit,"  she  mused,  and  even  encouraged  her  fancy  to  play 
with  the  idea  of  a  London  season — a  thing  it  had  not 
done  for  years. 

The  Reverend  Cecil,  curtains  drawn  and  lamp 
alight,  paused  to  think  of  her  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
first  thorough  examination  of  his  newest  treasure  in 
Seventeenth  Century  Tracts,  "The  Man  Mouse  baited 
and  trapped  for  nibbling  the  margins  of  Eugenius  Phil- 
alethes,  being  an  assault  on  Henry  Moore."  It  was 
bound  up  with,  "The  Second  Wash,  or  the  Moore 
scoured  again,"  and  a  dozen  others.  A  dumpy  octavo, 
in  brown  leather,  he  had  found  it  propping  a  beer  bar- 
rel in  the  next  village. 

"Dear  Lizzie! — I  wonder  if  she  will  ever  care  for 
really  important  things.  There  must  be  treasures  upon 


122          THE  INCOMPLETE  AIvIORIST 

treasures  in  those  boxes  on  the  French  quays  that  one 
reads  about.  But  she  never  would  learn  to  know  one 
type  from  another." 

He  studied  the  fire  thoughtfully. 

"I  wonder  if  she  does  understand  how  much  she  is 
to  me,"  he  thought.  "Those  are  the  things  that  are 
better  unsaid.  At  least  I  always  think  so  when  she's 
here.  But  all  these  months — I  wonder  whether  girls 
like  you  to  say  things,  or  to  leave  them  to  be  under- 
stood. It  is  more  delicate  not  to  say  them,  perhaps." 

Then  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  other  Lizzie, 
about  whom  he  had  never  felt  these  doubts.  He  had 
loved  her,  and  had  told  her  so.  And  she  had  told  him 
her  half  of  the  story  in  very  simple  words — and  most 
simply,  and  without  at  all  "leaving  things  to  be  under- 
stood" they  had  planned  the  future  that  never  was  to 
be.  He  remembered  the  day  when  sitting  over  the 
drawing-room  fire,  and  holding  her  dear  hand  he  had 
said: 

"This  is  how  we  shall  sit  when  we  are  old  and  gray, 
dearest."  It  had  seemed  so  impossibly  far-off  then. 

And  she  had  said : 

"I  hope  we  shall  die  the  same  day,  Cec." 

But  this  had  not  happened. 

And  he  had  said : 

"And  we  shall  have  such  a  beautiful  life — doing 
good,  and  working  for  God,  and  bringing  up  our  chil- 
dren in  the  right  way.  Oh,  Lizzie,  it's  very  wonderful 
to  think  of  that  happiness,  isn't  it?" 

And  she  had  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  whis- 
pered : 

"I  hope  we  shall  have  a  little  girl,  dear." 

And  he  had  said: 

"I  shall  call  her  Elizabeth,  after  my  dear  wife." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          123 

"  She  must  have  eyes  like  yours  though." 

"She  will  be  exactly  like  both  of  us,"  he  had  said, 
and  they  sat  hand  in  hand,  and  talked  innocently,  like 
two  children,  of  the  little  child  that  was  never  to  be. 

He  had  wanted  them  to  put  on  her  tombstone,  Lizzie 
daughter  of and  affianced  wife  of  Cecil  Under- 
wood, but  her  mother  had  said  that  there  there  was  no 
marrying  or  giving  in  marriage.  In  his  heart  the  Rev- 
erend Cecil  had  sometimes  dared  to  hope  that  that  text 
had  been  misunderstood.  To  him  his  Lizzie  had  al- 
ways been  "as  the  angels  of  God  in  Heaven." 

Then  came  the  long  broken  years,  and  then  the  little 
girl — Elizabeth,  his  step-child. 

The  pent-up  love  of  all  his  life  spent  itself  on  her: 
a  love  so  fond,  so  tender,  so  sacred  that  it  seemed  only 
self-respecting  to  hide  it  a  little  from  the  world  by  a 
mask  of  coldness.  And  Betty  had  never  seen  anything 
but  the  mask. 

"I  think,  when  I  see  her,  I  will  tell  her  all  about  my 
Lizzie,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  if  she  knows  what  the 
house  is  like  without  her.  But  of  course  she  doesn't, 
or  she  would  have  asked  to  come  home,  long  ago.  I 
wonder  whether  she  misses  me  very  much.  Madame 
Gautier  is  kind,  she  says ;  but  no  stranger  can  make  a 
home,  as  love  can  make  it." 

Meanwhile  Betty  dining  alone  at  a  restaurant  in  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel,  within  a  mile  of  the  Serpent, 
ordered  what  she  called  a  nice  dinner — it  was  mostly 
vegetables  and  sweet  things — and  ate  it  with  appetite, 
looking  about  her.  The  long  mirrors,  the  waiters  were 
like  the  ones  in  London  restaurants,  but  the  people  who 
ate  there  they  were  different.  Everything  was  much 
shabbier,  yet  much  gayer.  Shopkeeping-looking  men 
were  dining  with  their  wives ;  some  of  them  had  a  child, 


124         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

napkin  under  chin,  solemnly  struggling  with  a  big  soup 
spoon  or  upturning  on  its  little  nose  a  tumbler  of  weak 
red  wine  and  water.  There  were  students — she  knew 
them  by  their  slouched  hats  and  beards  a  day  old — 
dining  by  twos  and  threes  and  fours.  No  one  took  any 
more  notice  of  Betty  than  was  shewn  by  a  careless 
glance  or  two.  She  was  very  quietly  dressed.  Her  hat 
even  was  rather  an  unbecoming  brown  thing.  When 
she  had  eaten,  she  ordered  coffee,  and  began  to  try  to 
think,  but  thinking  was  difficult  with  the  loud  voices 
and  the  laughter,  and  the  clink  of  glasses  and  the  wait- 
ers' hurrying  transits.  And  at  the  back  of  her  mind 
was  a  thought  waiting  for  her  to  think  it.  And  she 
was  afraid. 

So  presently  she  paid  her  bill,  and  went  out,  and 
found  a  tram,  and  rode  on  the  top  of  it  through  the 
lighted  streets,  on  the  level  of  the  first  floor  windows 
and  the  brown  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the  Boulevards, 
and  went  away  and  away  through  the  heart  of  Paris ; 
and  still  all  her  mind  could  do  nothing  but  thrust  off, 
with  both  hands,  the  thought  that  was  pushing  forward 
towards  her  thinking.  When  the  tram  stopped  at  its 
journey's  end  she  did  not  alight,  but  paid  for,  and 
made,  the  return  journey,  and  found  her  feet  again  in 
the  Boulevard  St.  Michel. 

Of  course,  she  had  read  her  Trilby,  and  other  works 
dealing  with  the  Latin  Quarter.  She  knew  that  in 
that  quarter  everyone  is  not  respectable,  but  everyone 
is  kind.  It  seemed  good  to  her  to  go  to  a  cafe,  to  sit  at 
a  marble  topped  table,  and  drink — not  the  strange 
liqueurs  which  men  drink  in  books,  but  homely  hot 
milk,  such  as  some  of  the  other  girls  there  had  before 
them.  It  would  be  perfectly  simple,  as  well  as  interest- 
ing, to  watch  the  faces  of  the  students,  boys  and  girls, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         125 

•    and  when  she  found  a  nice  girl-face,  to  speak  to  it, 
asking  for  the  address  of  a  respectable  hotel. 

So  she  walked  up  the  wide,  tree-planted  street  feel- 
ing very  Parisian  indeed,  as  she  called  it  the  "Boule 
Miche"  to  herself.  And  she  stopped  at  the  first  Cafe 
she  came  to,  which  happened  to  be  the  Cafe  d'Har- 
court. 

She  did  not  see  its  name,  and  if  she  had  it  would 
naturally  not  have  conveyed  any  idea  to  her.  The  hour 
was  not  yet  ten,  and  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt  was  very 
quiet.  There  were  not  a  dozen  people  at  the  little 
tables.  Most  of  them  were  women.  It  would  be  easy 
to  ask  her  little  questions,  with  so  few  people  to  stare 
and  wonder  if  she  addressed  a  stranger. 

She  sat  down,  and  ordered  her  hot  milk  and,  with 
a  flutter,  awaited  it.  This  was  life.  And  to-morrow 
she  must  telegraph  to  her  step-father,  and  everything 
would  end  in  the  old  round  of  parish  duties;  all  her 
hopes  and  dreams  would  be  submerged  in  the  heavy 
morass  of  meeting  mothers.  The  thought  leapt  up. 
— Betty  hid  her  eyes  and  would  not  look  at  it.  Instead, 
she  looked  at  the  other  people  seated  at  the  tables — the 
women.  They  were  laughing  and  talking  among 
themselves.  One  or  two  looked  at  Betty  and  smiled 
with  frank  friendliness.  Betty  smiled  back,  but  with 
embarrassment.  She  had  heard  that  French  ladies  of 
rank  and  fashion  would  as  soon  go  out  without  their 
stockings  as  without  their  paint,  but  she  had  not  sup- 
posed that  the  practice  extended  to  art  students.  And 
all  these  ladies  were  boldly  painted — no  mere  soupc,on 
of  carmine  and  pearl  powder,  but  good  solid  master- 
pieces in  body  colour,  black,  white  and  red.  She 
smiled  in  answer  to  their  obvious  friendliness,  but  she 
did  not  ask  them  for  addresses.  A  Handsome 


126         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

black-browed  scowling  woman  sitting  alone  frowned 
at  her.  She  felt  quite  hurt.  Why  should  anyone  want 
to  be  unkind? 

Men  selling  flowers,  toy  rabbits,  rattling  cardboard 
balls,  offered  their  wares  up  and  down  the  row  of 
tables.  Betty  bought  a  bunch  of  fading  late  roses  and 
thought,  with  a  sudden  sentimentality  that  shocked 
her,  of  the  monthly  rose  below  the  window  at  home. 
It  always  bloomed  well  up  to  Christmas.  Well,  in 
two  days  she  would  see  that  rose-bush. 

The  trams  rattled  down  the  Boulevard,  carriages 
rolled  by.  Every  now  and  then  one  of  these  would 
stop,  and  a  couple  would  alight.  And  people  came  on 
foot.  The  cafe  was  filling  up.  But  still  none  of  the 
women  seemed  to  Betty  exactly  the  right  sort  of  person 
to  know  exactly  the  right  sort  of  hotel. 

Of  course  she  knew  from  books  that  Hotels  keep 
open  all  night, — but  she  did  not  happen  to  have  read 
any  book  which  told  of  the  reluctance  of  respectable 
hotels  to  receive  young  women  without  luggage,  late 
in  the  evening.  So  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was 
plenty  of  time. 

A  blonde  girl  with  jet  black  brows  and  eyes  like  big 
black  beads  was  leaning  her  elbows  on  her  table  and 
talking  to  her  companions,  two  tourist-looking  Ger- 
mans in  loud  checks.  They  kept  glancing  at  Betty, 
and  it  made  her  nervous  to  know  that  they  were  talk- 
ing about  her.  At  last  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  girl, 
who  smiled  at  her  and  made  a  little  gesture  of  invita- 
tion to  her,  to  come  and  sit  at  their  table.  Betty  out 
of  sheer  embarrassment  might  have  gone,  but  just  at 
that  moment  the  handsome  scowling  woman  rose,  rus- 
tled quickly  to  Betty,  knocking  over  a  chair  in  her  pas- 
sage, held  out  a  hand,  and  said  in  excellent  English : 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         127 

"How  do  you  do?" 

Betty  gave  her  hand,  but  "I  don't  remember  you," 
said  she. 

"May  I  join  you?"  said  the  woman  sitting  down. 
She  wore  black  and  white  and  red,  and  she  was  fright- 
fully smart,  Betty  thought.  She  glanced  at  the  others 
— the  tourists  and  the  blonde;  they  were  no  longer 
looking  at  her. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  woman,  speaking  low,  "I 
don't  know  you  from  Adam,  of  course,  but  I  know 
you're  a  decent  girl.  For  God's  sake  go  home  to  your 
friends!  I  don't  know  what  they're  about  to  let  you 
out  alone  like  this." 

"I'm  alone  in  Paris  just  now,"  said  Betty. 

"Good  God  in  Heaven,  you  little  fool !  Get  back  to 
your  lodging.  You've  no  business  here." 

"I've  as  much  business  as  anyone  else,"  said  Betty. 
"I'm  an  artist,  too,  and  I  want  to  see  life." 

"You've  not  seen  much  yet,"  said  the  woman  with  a 
laugh  that  Betty  hated  to  hear.  "Have  you  been 
brought  up  in  a  convent  ?  You  an  artist !  Look  at  all 
of  us!  Do  you  need  to  be  told  what  our  trade  is?" 

"Don't,"  said  Betty;  "oh,  don't." 

"Go  home,"  said  the  woman,  "and  say  your  prayers 
— I  suppose  you  do  say  your  prayers  ? — and  thank  God 
that  it  isn't  your  trade  too." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Betty. 

"Well  then,  go  home  and  read  your  Bible.  That'll 
tell  you  the  sort  of  woman  it  is  that  stands  about  the 
corners  of  streets,  or  sits  at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt.  What 
are  your  people  about?" 

"My  father's  in  England,"  said  Betty;  "he's  a  clergy- 
man." 

"I  generally  say  mine  was,"  said  the  other,  "but  I 


128         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

won't  to  you,  because  you'd  believe  me.  My  father 
was  church  organist,  though.  And  the  Vicarage  peo- 
ple were  rather  fond  of  me.  I  used  to  do  a  lot  of  Par- 
ish work."  She  laughed  again. 

Betty  laid  a  hand  on  the  other  woman's. 

"Couldn't  you  go  home  to  your  father — or 

something?"  she  asked  feebly. 

"He's  cursed  me  forever — Put  it  all  down  in  black 
and  white — a  regular  commination  service.  It's  you 
that  have  got  to  go  home,  and  do  it  now,  too."  She 
shook  off  Betty's  hand  and  waved  her  own  to  a  man 
who  was  passing. 

"Here,.  Mr.  Temple—" 

The  man  halted,  hesitated  and  came  up  to  them. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  black-browed  woman,  "look 
what  a  pretty  flower  I've  found, — and  here  of  all 
places !" 

She  indicated  Betty  by  a  look.  The  man  looked  too, 
and  took  the  third  chair  at  their  table.  Betty  wished 
that  the  ground  might  open  and  cover  her,  but  the 
Boule  Miche  asphalt  is  solid.  The  new-comer  was 
tall  and  broad-shouldered,  with  a  handsome,  serious, 
boyish  face,  and  fair  hair. 

"She  won't  listen  to  me — " 

"Oh,  I  did !"  Betty  put  in  reproachfully. 

"You  talk  to  her  like  a  father.  Tell  her  where 
naughty  little  girls  go  who  stay  out  late  at  the  Cafe 
d'Harcourt — fire  and  brimstone,  you  know.  She'll  un- 
derstand, she's  a  clergyman's  daughter." 

"I  really  do  think  you'd  better  go  home,"  said  the 
new  comer  to  Betty  with  gentle  politeness. 

"I  would,  directly,"  said  Betty,  almost  in  tears,  "but 
— the  fact  is  I  haven't  settled  on  a  hotel,  and  I  came 
to  this  cafe.  I  thought  I  could  ask  one  of  these  art 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          129 

students  to  tell  me  a  good  hotel,  but — so  that's  how  it 
is." 

"I  should  think  not,"  Temple  answered  the  hiatus. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  black-browed,  scowling  woman, 
and  his  look  was  very  kind. 

"Nini  and  her  German  swine  were  beginning  to  be 
amiable,"  said  the  woman  in  an  aside  which  Betty  did 
not  hear.  "For  Christ's  sake  take  the  child  away,  and 
put  her  safely  for  the  night  somewhere,  if  you  have  to 
ring  up  a  Mother  Superior  or  a  Governesses'  Aid  So- 
ciety." 

"Right.    I  will."    He  turned  to  Betty. 

"Will  you  allow  me,"  he  said,  "to  find  a  carriage  for 
you,  and  see  you  to  a  hotel?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Betty. 

He  went  out  to  the  curbstone  and  scanned  the  road 
for  a  passing  carriage. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  black-browed  woman,  turn- 
ing suddenly  on  Betty ;  "I  daresay  you'll  think  it's  not 
my  place  to  speak — oh,  if  you  don't  think  so  you  will 
some  day,  when  you're  grown  up, — but  look  here.  I'm 
not  chaffing.  It's  deadly  earnest.  You  be  good.  See? 
There's  nothing  else  that's  any  good  really." 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  "I  know.  If  you're  not  good  you 
won't  be  happy." 

"There  you  go,"  the  other  answered  almost  fiercely ; 
"it's  always  the  way.  Everyone  says  it — copybooks 
and  Bible  and  everything — and  no  one  believes  it  till 
they've  tried  the  other  way,  and  then  it's  no  use  believ- 
ing anything." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  said  Betty  comfortingly,  "and  you're 
so  kind.  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you.  Being  kind 
is  being  good  too,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  you  aren't  always  a  'devil^  even  if  you  are  in 


i3o         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

hell.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  all  the 
things  I  didn't  understand  when  I  was  like  you.  But 
nobody  can.  That's  part  of  the  hell.  And  you  don't 
even  understand  half  I'm  saying." 

"I.think  I  do,"  said  Betty. 

"Keep  straight,"  the  other  said  earnestly;  "never 
mind  how  dull  it  is.  I  used  to  think  it  must  be  dull  in 
Heaven.  God  knows  it's  dull  in  the  other  place !  Look, 
he's  got  a  carriage.  You  can  trust  him  just  for  once, 
but  as  a  rule  I'd  say  'Don't  you  trust  any  of  them — 
they're  all  of  a  piece.'  Good-bye;  you're  a  nice  little 
thing." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Betty;  "oh,  good-bye!  You  are 
kind,  and  good!  People  can't  all  be  good  the  same 
way,"  she  added,  vaguely  and  seeking  to  comfort. 

"Women  can,"  said  the  other,  "don't  you 'make  any 
mistake.  Good-bye." 

She  watched  the  carriage  drive  away,  and  turned  to 
meet  the  spiteful  chaff  of  Nini  and  her  German  friends. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  as  soon  as  the  wheels  be- 
gan to  revolve,  "perhaps  you  will  tell  me  how  you  come 
to  be  out  in  Paris  alone  at  this  hour." 

Betty  stared  at  him  coldly. 

"I  shall  be  greatly  obliged  if  you  can  recommend  me 
a  good  hotel,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  even  know  your  name,"  said  he. 

"No,"  she  answered  briefly. 

"I  cannot  advise  you  unless  you  will  trust  me  a  lit- 
tle," he  said  gently. 

"You  are  very  kind, — but  I  have  not  yet  asked  for 
anyone's  advice." 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  have  offended  you,"  he  said,  "but  I 
only  wish  to  be  of  service  to  you." 


"  She  stared  at  him  coldly  " 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         131 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Betty :  "the  only  ser- 
vice I  want  is  the  name  of  a  good  hotel." 

"You  are  unwise  to  refuse  my  help,"  he  said.  "The 
place  where  I  found  you  shews  that  you  are  not  to  be 
trusted  about  alone." 

"Look  here,"  said  Betty,  speaking  very  fast,  "I  dare 
say  you  mean  well,  but  it  isn't  your  business.  The 
lady  I  was  speaking  to — " 

"That  just  shews,"  he  said. 

"She  was  very  kind,  and  I  like  her.  But  I  don't  in- 
tend to  be  interfered  with  by  any  strangers,  however 
well  they  mean." 

He  laughed  for  the  first  time,  and  she  liked  him  bet- 
ter when  she  had  heard  the  note  of  his  laughter. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite  right. 
Miss  Conway  is  very  kind.  And  I  really  do  want  to 
help  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  impertinent.  May  I 
speak  plainly?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt  is  not  a  place  for  a  re- 
spectable girl  to  go  to." 

"I  gathered  that,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I  won't 
go  there  again." 

"Have  you  quarreled  with  your  friends?"  he  per- 
sisted; "have  you  run  away?" 

"No,"  said  Betty,  and  on  a  sudden  inspiration,  add- 
ed :  "I'm  very,  very  tired.  You  can  ask  me  any  ques- 
tions you  like  in  the  morning.  Now :  will  you  please 
tell  the  man  where  to  go?" 

The  dismissal  was  unanswerable. 

He  took  out  his  card-case  and  scribbled  on  a  card. 

"Where  is  your  luggage?"  he  asked. 

"Not  here,"  she  said  briefly. 

"I  thought  not,"  he  smiled  again.     "I  am  discern- 


132 

ing,  am  I  not?  Well,  perhaps  you  didn't  know  that 
respectable  hotels  prefer  travellers  who  have  luggage. 
But  they  know  me  at  this  place.  I  have  said  you  are 
my  cousin,"  he  added  apologetically. 

He  stopped  the  carriage.  "Hotel  de  1'Unicorne,"  he 
told  the  driver  and  stood  bareheaded  till  she  was  out  of 
sight. 

The  Thought  came  out  and  said :  "There  will  be  an 
end  of  Me  if  you  see  that  well-meaning  person  again." 
Betty  would  not  face  the  Thought,  but  she  was  roused 
to  protect  it. 

She  stood  up  and  touched  the  coachman  on  the  arm. 

"Go  back  to  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,"  she  said.  "I  have 
forgotten  something. 

That  was  why,  when  Temple  called,  very  early,  at 
the  Hotel  de  1'Unicorne  he  heard  that  his  cousin  had 
not  arrived  there  the  night  before — Had  not,  indeed, 
arrived  at  all. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said.  "Certainly  she  had  run  away 
from  home.  I  suppose  I  frightened  her.  I  was  always 
a  clumsy  brute  with  women." 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE  THOUGHT. 

The  dark-haired  woman  was  still  ably  answering  the 
chaff  of  Nini  and  the  Germans.  And  her  face  was 
not  the  face  she  had  shewn  to  Betty.  Betty  came 
quietly  behind  her  and  touched  her  shoulder.  She 
leapt  in  her  chair  and  turned  white  under  the  rouge. 

"What  the  devil! — You  shouldn't  do  that!"  she  said 
roughly;  "You  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Betty,  who  was  pale  too.  "Come 
away,  won't  you  ?  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Your  little  friend  is  charming,"  said  one  of  the 
mien  in  thick  German-French.  "May  I  order  for  her 
a  bock  or  a  cerises  ?" 

"Do  come,"  she  urged. 

"Let's  walk,"  she  said.  "What's  the  matter? 
Where's  young  Temple?  Don't  tell  me  he's  like  all  the 
others." 

"He  meant  to  be  kind,"  said  Betty,  "but  he  asked  a 
lot  of  questions,  and  I  don't  want  to  know  him.  I  like 
you  better.  Isn't  there  anywhere  we  can  be  quiet,  and 
talk?  I'm  all  alone  here  in  Paris,  and  I  do  want  help. 
And  I'd  rather  you'd  help  me  than  anyone  else.  Can't 
I  come  home  with  you?" 

"No  you  can't." 

"Well  then,  will  you  come  with  me? — not  to  the 
hotel  he  told  me  of,  but  to  some  other — you  must  know 
of  one." 

133 


I34         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"What  will  you  do  if  I  don't?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Betty  very  forlornly,  "but  you 
will,  won't  you.  You  don't  know  how  tired  I  am. 
Come  with  me,  and  then  in  the  morning  we  can  talk. 
Do— do." 

The  other  woman  took  some  thirty  or  forty  steps  in 
silence.  Then  she  asked  abruptly : 

"Have  you  plenty  of  money?" 

"Yes,  lots." 

"And  you're  an  artist?" 

"Yes — at  least  I'm  a  student." 

Again  the  woman  reflected.  At  last  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  laughed.  "Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief,"  she  said.  "I  shall  make  a  dragon  of  a  chaperon, 
I  warn  you.  Yes,  I'll  come,  just  for  this  one  night, 
but  you'll  have  to  pay  the  hotel  bill." 

"Of  course,"  said  Betty. 

"This  is  an  adventure!    Where's  your  luggage?" 

"It's  at  the  station,  but  I  want  you  to  promise  not 
to  tell  that  Temple  man  a  word  about  me.  I  don't 
want  to  see  him  again.  Promise." 

"Queer  child.  But  I'll  promise.  Now  look  here :  if 
I  go  into  a  thing  at  all  I  go  into  it  heart  and  soul ;  so 
let's  do  the  thing  properly.  Wre  must  have  some  lug- 
gage. I've  got  an  old  portmanteau  knocking  about. 
Will  you  wait  for  me  somewhere  while  I  get  it?" 

"I'd  rather  not,"  said  Betty,  remembering  the  Ger- 
mans and  Nini. 

"Well  then, — there'd  be  no  harm  for  a  few  minutes. 
You  can  come  with  me.  This  is  really  rather  a  lark!" 

Five  minutes'  walking  brought  the  two  to  a  dark 
house.  The  woman  rang  a  bell ;  a  latch  clicked  and  a 
big  door  swung  open.  She  grasped  Betty's  hand. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          135 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  she  said,  and  pulled  her  through. 

It  was  very  dark. 

The  other  woman  called  out  a  name  as  they  passed 
the  door  of  the  concierge,  a  name  that  was  not  Con- 
way,  and  her  hand  pulled  Betty  up  flight  after  flight 
of  steep  stairs.  On  the  fifth  floor  she  opened  a  door 
with  a  key,  and  left  Betty  standing  at  the  threshold  till 
she  had  lighted  a  lamp. 

Then  "Come  in,"  she  said,  and  shut  the  door  and 
bolted  it. 

The  room  was  small  and  smelt  of  white  rose  scent; 
the  looking-glass  had  a  lace  drapery  fastened  up  with 
crushed  red  roses ;  and  there  were  voluminous  lace  and 
stuff  curtains  to  bed  and  window. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  hostess.  She  took  off  her  hat 
and  pulled  the  scarlet  flowers  from  it.  She  washed  her 
face  till  it  shewed  no  rouge  and  no  powder,  and  the 
brown  of  lashes  and  brows  was  free  from  the  black 
water-paint.  She  raked  under  the  bed  with  a  faded 
sunshade  till  she  found  an  old  brown  portmanteau.  Her 
smart  black  and  white  dress  was  changed  for  a  black 
one,  of  a  mode  passee  these  three  years.  A  gray 
chequered  golf  cape  and  the  dulled  hat  completed  the 
transformation. 

"How  nice  you  look,"  said  Betty. 

The  other  bundled  some  linen  and  brushes  into  the 
portmanteau. 

"The  poor  old  Gladstone's  very  thin  still,"  she  said, 
and  folded  skirts ;  "we  must  plump  it  out  somehow." 

When  the  portmanteau  was  filled  and  strapped,  they 
carried  it  down  between  them,  in  the  dark,  and  got  it 
out  on  to  the  pavement. 

"I  am  Miss  Conway  now,"  said  the  woman,  "and  we 


136         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

will  drive  to  the  Hotel  de  Lille.  I  went  there  one 
Easter  with  my  father." 

With  the  change  in  her  dress  a  change  had  come  over 
Miss  Conway's  voice. 

At  the  Hotel  de  Lille  it  was  she  who  ordered  the  two 
rooms,  communicating,  for  herself  and  her  cousin, 
explained  where  the  rest  of  the  luggage  was,  and  gave 
orders  for  the  morning  chocolate. 

"This  is  very  jolly,"  said  Betty,  when  they  were 
alone.  "It's  like  an  elopement." 

"Exactly,"  said  Miss  Conway.     "Good  night." 

"It's  rather  like  a  dream,  though.  I  shan't  wake  up 
and  find  you  gone,  shall  I?"  Betty  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  no.  We've  all  your  affairs  to  settle  in  the 
morning." 

"And  yours?" 

"Mine  were  settled  long  ago.  Oh,  I  forgot — I'm 
Miss  Conway,  at  the  Hotel  de  Lille.  Yes,  we'll  settle 
my  affairs  in  the  morning,  too.  Good  night,  little 
girl." 

"Good  night,  Miss  Conway." 

"They  call  me  Lotty." 

"My  name's  Betty  and — look  here,  I  can't  wait  till 
the  morning."  Betty  clasped  her  hands,  and  seemed 
to  be  holding  her  courage  between  them.  "I've  come 
to  Paris  to  study  art,  and  I  want  you  to  come  and  live 
with  me.  I  know  you'd  like  it,  and  I've  got  heaps  of 
money — will  you?" 

She  spoke  quickly  and  softly,  and  her  face  was 
flushed  and  her  eyes  bright. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"You  silly  little  duffer — you  silly  dear  little  duffer." 

The  other  woman  had  turned  away  and  was  ringer- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         137 

ing  the  chains  of  an  ormolu  candlestick  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

Betty  put  an  arm  over  her  shoulders, 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  such  a  duffer  as  you 
think.  I  know  people  do  dreadful  things — but  they 
needn't  go  on  doing  them,  need  they?" 

"Yes,  they  need,"  said  the  other;  "that's  just  it." 

Her  fingers  were  still  twisting  the  bronze  chains. 

"And  the  women  you  talked  about — in  the  Bible — 
they  weren't  kind  and  good,  like  you;  they  were  just 
only  horrid  and  not  anything  else.  You  told  me  to  be 
good.  Won't  you  let  me  help  you?  Oh,  it  does  seem 
such  cheek  of  me,  but  I  never  knew  anyone  before  who 
— I  don't  know  how  to  say  it.  But  I  am  so  sorry,  and 
I  want  you  to  be  good,  just  as  much  as  you  want  me 
to.  Dear,  dear  Lottyl" 

"My  name's  Paula." 

"Paula  dear,  I  wish  I  wasn't  so  stupid,  but  I  know 
it's  not  your  fault,  and  I  know  you  aren't  like  that 
woman  with  the  Germans." 

"I  should  hope  not  indeed,"  Paula  was  roused  to 
flash  back;  "dirty  little  French  gutter-cat." 

"I've  never  been  a  bit  of  good  to  anyone,"  said 
Betty,  adding  her  other  arm  and  making  a  necklace  of 
the  two  round  Paula's  neck,  "except  to  Parishioners 
perhaps.  Do  let  me  be  a  bit  of  good  to  you.  Don't 
you  think  I  could?" 

"You  dear  little  fool!"  said  Paula  gruffly. 

"Yes,  but  say  yes — you  must !  I  know  you  want  to. 
I've  got  lots  of  money.  Kiss  me,  Paula." 

"I  won't! — Don't  kiss  me! — I  won't  have  it!  Go 
away,"  said  the  woman,  clinging  to  Betty  and  return- 
ing her  kisses. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Betty  gently.     "We  shall  be  ever 


138         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

so  happy.  You'll  see.  Good  night,  Paula.  Do  you 
know  I've  never  had  a  friend — a  girl-friend,  I  mean  ?" 

"For  God's  sake  hold  your  tongue,  and  go  to  bed! 
Good  night." 

Betty,  alone,  faced  at  last,  and  for  the  first  time, 
The  Thought.  But  it  had  changed  its  dress  when  Miss 
Conway  changed  hers.  It  was  no  longer  a  Thought: 
it  was  a  Resolution. 

Twin-born  with  her  plan  for  saving  her  new  friend 
was  the  plan  for  a  life  that  should  not  be  life  at  Long 
Barton. 

All  the  evening  she  had  refused  to  face  The  Thought. 
But  it  had  been  shaping  itself  to  something  more  defi- 
nite than  thought.  As  a  Resolution,  a  Plan,  it  now 
unrolled  itself  before  her.  She  sat  in  the  stiff  arm-chair 
looking  straight  in  front  of  her,  and  she  saw  what  she 
meant  to  do.  The  Thought  had  been  wise  not  to  insist 
too  much  on  recognition.  Earlier  in  the  evening  it 
would  have  seemed  merely  a  selfish  temptation.  Now 
it  was  an  opportunity  for  a  good  and  noble  act.  And 
Betty  had  always  wanted  so  much  to  be  noble  and 
good. 

Here  she  was  in  Paris,  alone.  Her  aunt,  train-borne, 
was  every  moment  further  and  further  away.  As  for 
her  step-father: 

"I  hate  him,"  said  Betty,  "and  he  hates  me.  He 
only  let  me  come  to  get  rid  of  me.  And  what  good 
could  I  do  at  Long  Barton  compared  with  what  I  can 
do  here?  Any  one  can  do  Parish  work.  I've  got  the 
money  Aunt  left  for  Madame  Gautier.  Perhaps  it's 
stealing.  But  is  it?  The  money  was  meant  to  pay  to 
keep  me  in  Paris  to  study  Art.  And  it's  not  as  if  I 
were  staying  altogether  for  selfish  reasons — there's 
Paula.  I'm  sure  she  has  really  a  noble  nature.  And 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          139 

it's  not  as  if  I  were  staying  because  He  is  in  Paris.  Of 
course,  that  would  be  really  wrong.  But  he  said  he 
was  going  to  Vienna.  I  suppose  his  uncle  delayed 
him,  but  he'll  certainly  go.  I'm  sure  it's  right.  I've 
learned  a  lot  since  I  left  home.  I'm  not  a  child  now. 
I'm  a  woman,  and  I  must  do  what  I  think  is  right.  You 
know  I  must,  mustn't  I  ?" 

She  appealed  to  the  Inward  Monitor,  but  it  refused 
to  be  propitiated. 

"It  only  seems  not  quite  right  because  it's  so  unus- 
ual," she  went  on ;  "that's  because  I've  never  been  any- 
where or  done  anything.  After  all,  it's  my  own  life, 
and  I  have  a  right  to  live  it  as  I  like.  My  step-father 
has  never  written  to  Madame  Gautier  all  these  months. 
He  won't  now.  It's  only  to  tell  him  she  has  changed 
her  address — he  only  writes  to  me  on  Sunday  nights. 
There's  just  time.  And  I'll  keep  the  money,  and  when 
'Aunt  comes  back  I'll  tell  her  everything.  She'll  under- 
stand." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  Inward  Monitor. 

"Any  way,"  said  Betty,  putting  her  foot  down  on 
the  Inward  Monitor,  "I'm  going  to  do  it.  If  it's  only 
for  Paula's  sake.  We'll  take  rooms,  and  I'll  go  to  a 
Studio,  and  work  hard ;  and  I  won't  make  friends  with 
gentlemen  I  don't  know,  or  anything  silly,  so  there," 
she  added  defiantly.  "Auntie  left  the  money  for  me  to 
study  in  Paris.  If  I  tell  my  step-father  that  Madame 
Gautier  is  dead,  he'll  just  fetch  me  home,  and  what'll 
become  of  Paula  then?" 

Thus  and  thus,  ringing  the  changes  on  resolve  and 
explanation,  her  thoughts  ran.  A  clock  chimed  mid- 
night. 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  asked  herself,  "that  it's  not 
twelve  hours  since  I  was  at  the  Hotel  Bete — talking  to 


140         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Him?  Well,  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  I  suppose. 
How  odd  that  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  cared  whether  I  did 
or  not.  I  suppose  what  I  felt  about  him  wasn't  real.  It 
all  seems  so  silly  now.  Paula  is  real,  and  all  that  I 
mean  to  do  for  her  is  real.  He  isn't." 

She  prayed  that  night  as  usual,  but  her  mind  was 
made  up,  and  she  prayed  outside  a  closed  door. 

Next  morning,  when  her  chocolate  came  up,  she 
carried  it  into  the  next  room,  and,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  her  new  friend's  bed,  breakfasted  there. 

Paula  seemed  dazed  when  she  first  woke,  but  soon 
she  was  smiling  and  listening  to  Betty's  plans. 

"How  young  you  look,"  said  Betty,  "almost  as 
young  as  me." 

"I'm  twenty-five." 

"You  don't  look  it — with  your  hair  in  those  pretty 
plaits,  and  your  nightie.  You  do  have  lovely  night- 
gowns." 

"I'll  get  up  now,"  said  Paula.  "Look  out — I  nearly 
upset  the  tray." 

Betty  had  carefully  put  away  certain  facts  and  la- 
belled them :  "Not  to  be  told  to  anyone,  even  Paula." 
No  one  was  to  know  anything  about  Vernon.  "There  is 
nothing  to  know  really,"  she  told  herself.  No  one  was 
to  know  that  she  was  alone  in  Paris  without  the  knowl- 
edge of  her  relations.  Lots  of  girls  came  to  Paris  alone 
to  study  art.  She  was  just  one  of  these. 

She  found  the  lying  wonderfully  easy.  It  did  not 
bring  with  it,  either,  any  of  the  shame  that  lying 
should  bring,  but  rather  a  sense  of  triumphant  achieve- 
ment, as  from  a  difficult  part  played  excellently. 

She  paid  the  hotel  bill,  and  then  the  search  for  rooms 
began. 

"We  must  be  very  economical,  you  know,"  she  said, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          141 

"but  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you?  I  think  it  will  be 
rather  fun." 

"It  would  be  awful  fun,"  said  the  other.  "You'll  go 
and  work  at  the  studio,  and  when  you  come  home  after 
your  work  I  shall  have  cooked  the  dejeuner,  and  we 
shall  have  it  together  on  a  little  table  with  a  nice  white 
cloth  and  a  bunch  of  flowers  on  it." 

"Yes;  and  in  the  evening  we'll  go  out,  to  concerts 
and  things,  and  ride  on  the  tops  of  trams.  And  on 
Sundays — what  does  one  do  on  Sundays?" 

"I  suppose  one  goes  to  church,"  said  Paula. 

"Oh,  I  think  not  when  we're  working  so  hard  all  the 
week.  We'll  go  into  the  country." 

"We  can  take  the  river  steamer  and  go  to  St.  Cloud, 
or  go  out  on  the  tram  to  Clamart — the  woods  there  are 
just  exactly  like  the  woods  at  home.  What  part  of 
England  do  you  live  in?" 

"Kent,"  said  Betty. 

"My  home's  in  Devonshire,"  said  Paula. 

It  was  a  hard  day :  so  many  stairs  to  climb,  so  many 
apartments  to  see !  And  all  of  them  either  quite  beyond 
Betty's  means,  or  else  little  stuffy  places,  filled  to  chok- 
ing point  with  the  kind  of  furniture  no  one  could  bear 
to  live  with,  and  with  no  light,  and  no  outlook  except  a 
blank  wall  a  yard  or  two  from  the  window. 

They  kept  to  the  Montparnasse  quarter,  for  there, 
Paula  said,  were  the  best  ateliers  for  Betty.  They 
found  a  little  restaurant,  where  only  art  students  ate, 
and  where  one  could  breakfast  royally  for  about  a 
shilling.  Betty  looked  with  interest  at  the  faces  of  the 
students,  and  wondered  whether  she  should  ever  know 
any  of  them.  Some  of  them  looked  interesting.  A 
few  were  English,  and  fully  half  American. 

Then  the  weary  hunt  for  rooms  began  again. 


142         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

It  was  five  o'clock  before  a  concierge,  unexpected 
amiable  in  face  of  their  refusal  of  her  rooms,  asked 
whether  they  had  tried  Madame  Bianchi's — Madame 
Bianchi  where  the  atelier  was,  and  the  students'  meet- 
ings on  Sunday  evenings, — Number  57  Boulevard 
Montparnasse. 

They  tried  it.  One  passes  through  an  archway  into 
a  yard  where  the  machinery,  of  a  great  laundry  pulses 
half  the  week,  .up  some  wide  wooden  stairs — shallow, 
easy  stairs — and  on  the  first  floor  are  the  two  rooms. 
Betty  drew  a  long  breath  when  she  saw  them.  They 
were  lofty,  they  were  airy,  they  were  light.  There  was 
not  much  furniture,  but  what  there  was  was  good — old 
carved  armoires,  solid  divans  and — joy  of  joys — in 
each  room  a  carved  oak,  Seventeenth  Century  mantel- 
piece eight  feet  high  and  four  feet  deep. 

"I  must  have  these  rooms !"  Betty  whispered.  "Oh, 
I  could  make  them  so  pretty!" 

The  rent  of  the  rooms  was  almost  twice  as  much  as 
the  sum  they  fixed  on,  and  Paula  murmured  cau- 
tion. 

"Its  no  use,"  said  Betty.  "We'll  live  on  bread  and 
water  if  you  like,  but  we'll  live  on  it  here" 

And  she  took  the  rooms. 

"I'm  sure  we've  done  right,"  she  said  as  they  drove 
off  to  fetch  her  boxes :  "the  rooms  will  be  like  a  home, 
you  see  if  they  aren't.  And  there's  a  piano  too.  And 
Madame  Bianchi,  isn't  she  a  darling ;  Isn't  she  pretty 
and  sweet  and  nice?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paula  thoughtfully;  "it  certainly  is 
something  that  you've  got  rooms  in  the  house  of  a 
woman  like  that." 

"And  that  ducky  little  kitchen!  Oh,  we  shall  have 
such  fun,  cooking  our  own  meals !  You  shall  get  the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         143 

dejeuner  but  I'll  cook  the  dinner  while  you  lie  on  the 
sofa  and  read  novels  'like  a  real  lady.' ' 

"Don't  use  that  expression — I  hate  it,"  said  Paula 
sharply.  "But  the  rooms  are  lovely,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  place  for  you  to  be  in — I'm  sure  of 
that,"  said  the  other,  musing  again. 

When  the  boxes  were  unpacked,  and  Betty  had 
pinned  up  a  few  prints  and  photographs  and  sketches 
and  arranged  some  bright  coloured  Liberty  scarves  to 
cover  the  walls'  more  obvious  defects — left  by  the  re- 
moval of  the  last  tenant's  decorations — when  flowers 
were  on  table  and  piano,  the  curtains  drawn  and  the 
lamps  lighted,  the  room  did,  indeed,  look,  "like  a  home." 

"We'll  have  dinner  out  to-night,"  said  Paula,  "  and 
to-morrow  we'll  go  marketing,  and  find  you  a  studio 
to  work  at." 

"Why  not  here?" 

"That's  an  idea.  Have  you  a  lace  collar  you  can 
lend  me?  This  is  not  fit  to  be  seen." 

Betty  pinned  the  collar  on  her  friend. 

"I  believe  you  get  prettier  every  minute,"  she  said. 
"I  must  just  write  home  and  give  them  my  address." 

She  fetched  her  embroidered  blotting-book. 

"It  reminds  one  of  bazaars,"  said  Miss  Conway. 

57  Boulevard  Montparnasse. 
My  dear  Father: 

This  is  our  new  address.  Madame  Gautier's  ten- 
ant wanted  to  keep  on  her  flat  in  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard, 
so  she  has  taken  this  one  which  is  larger  and  very 
convenient,  as  it  is  close  to  many  of  the  best  studios. 
I  think  I  shall  like  it  very  much.  -It-is  not  decided  yet 
where  I  am  to  study,  but  there  is  an  Atelier  in  the 
House  for  ladies  only,  and  I  think  it  will  be  there,  so 


144         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

that  I  shall  not  have  to  go  out  to  my  lessons.  I  will 
write  again  as  soon  as  we  are  more  settled.  We  only 
moved  in  late  this  afternoon,  so  there  is  a  lot  to  do. 
I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  and  that  everything  is  going 
on  well  in  the  Parish.  I  will  certainly  send  some 
sketches  for  the  Christmas  sale.  Madame  Gautier  does 
not  wish  me  to  go  home  for  Christmas;  she  thinks  it 
would  interrupt  my  work  too  much.  There  is  a  new 
girl,  a  Miss  Conway.  I  like  her  very  much.  With 
love,  Yours  affectionately, 

E.  DESMOND. 

She  was  glad  when  that  letter  was  written.  It  is 
harder  to  lie  in  writing  than  in  speech,  and  the  use  of 
the  dead  woman's  name  made  her  shiver. 

"But  I  won't  do  things  by  halves,"  she  said. 

"What's  this?"  Paula  asked  sharply.  She  had 
stopped  in  front  of  one  of  Betty's  water  colours. 

"That?  Oh,  I  did  it  ages  ago — before  I  learned  any- 
thing. Don't  look  at  it." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"Oh,  only  our  house  at  home." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Paula,  "why  all  English  Vicarages 
are  exactly  alike." 

"It's  a  Rectory,"  said  Betty  absently. 

"That  ought  to  make  a  difference,  but  it  doesn't,  I 
haven't  seen  an  English  garden  for  four  years." 

"Four  years  is  a  long  time,"  said  Betty. 

"You  don't  know  how  long,"  said  the  other.  "And 
the  garden's  been  going  on  just  the  same  all  the  time. 
It  seems  odd,  doesn't  it  ?  Those  hollyhocks — the  ones 
at  the  Vicarage  at  home  are  just  like  them.  Come, 
let's  go  to  dinner!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  RESCUE. 

When  Vernon  had  read  Betty's  letter — and  holding 
it  up  to  the  light  he  was  able  to  read  the  scratched-out 
words  almost  as  easily  as  the  others — he  decided  that 
he  might  as  well  know  where  she  worked,  and  one  day, 
after  he  had  called  on  Lady  St.  Craye,  he  found  him- 
self walking  along  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard.  Lady  St. 
Craye  was  charming.  And  she  had  been  quite  right 
when  she  had  said  that  he  would  find  a  special  charm 
in  the  companionship  of  one  in  whose  heart  his  past 
love-making  seemed  to  have  planted  no  thorns.  Yet 
her  charm,  by  its  very  nature — its  finished  elegance,  its 
conscious  authority — made  him  think  with  the  more 
interest  of  the  unformed,  immature  grace  of  the  other 
woman — Betty,  in  whose  heart  he  had  not  had  the 
chance  to  plant  either  thorns  or  roses. 

How  could  he  find  out?  Concierges  are  venal,  but 
Vernon  disliked  base  instruments.  He  would  act 
boldly.  It  was  always  the  best  way.  He  would  ask 
to  see  this  Madame  Gautier — if  Betty  were  present  he 
must  take  his  chance.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see 
whether  she  would  commit  herself  to  his  plot  by  not 
recognizing  him.  If  she  did  that — Yet  he  hoped  she 
wouldn't.  If  she  did  recognize  him  he  would  say  that 
it  was  through  Miss  Desmond's  relatives  that  he  had 
heard  of  Madame  Gautier.  Betty  could  not  contradict 

'45 


II46         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

him.  He  would  invent  a  niece  whose  parents  wished 
to  place  her  with  Madame.  Then  he  could  ask  as 
many  questions  as  he  liked,  about  hours  and  studios, 
and  all  the  details  of  the  life  Betty  led. 

It  was  a  simple  straight-forward  design,  and  one 
that  carried  success  in  its  pocket.  No  one  could  sus- 
pect anything. 

Yet  at  the  very  first  step  suspicion,  or  what  looked 
like  it,  stared  at  him  from  the  eyes  of  the  concierge 
when  he  asked  for  Madame  Gautier. 

"Monsieur  is  not  of  the  friends  of  Madame?"  she 
asked  curiously. 

He  knew  better  than  to  resent  the  curiosity.  He 
explained  that  he  desired  to  see  Madame  on  business. 

"You  will  see  her  never,"  the  woman  said  dramati- 
cally; "she  sees  no  one  any  more." 

"Is  it  that  she  is  ill?" 

"It  is  that  she  is  dead, — and  the  dead  do  not  re- 
ceive, Monsieur."  She  laughed,  and  told  the  tale  of 
death  circumstantially,  with  grim  relish  of  detail. 

"And  the  young  ladies — they  have  returned  to  their 
parents  ?" 

"Ah,  it  is  in  the  young  ladies  that  Monsieur  inter- 
ests himself?  But  yes.  Madame's  brother,  who  is  in 
the  Commerce  of  Nantes,  he  restored  instantly  the 
young  ladies  to  their  friends.  One  was  already  with 
her  aunt." 

Vernon  had  money  ready  in  his  hand. 

"What  was  her  name,  Madame — the  young  lady 
with  the  aunt?" 

"But  I  know  not,  Monsieur.  She  was  a  new  young 
lady,  who  had  been  with  Madame  at  her  Villa — I  have 
not  seen  her.  At  the  time  of  the  regrettable  accident 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

she  was  with  her  aunt,  and  doubtless  remains  there. 
Thank  you,  Monsieur.  That  is  all  I  know." 

"Thank  you,  Madame.  I  am  desolated  to  have  dis- 
turbed you.  Good  day." 

And  Vernon  was  in  the  street  again. 

So  Betty  had  never  come  to  the  Rue  Vaugirard !  The 
aunt  must  somehow  have  heard  the  news — perhaps  she 
had  called  on  the  way  to  the  train — she  had  returned  to 
the  Bete  and  Betty  now  was  Heaven  alone  knew  where. 
Perhaps  at  Long  Barton.  Perhaps  in  Paris,  with  some 
other  dragon. 

Vernon  for  a  day  or  two  made  a  point  of  being  near 
when  the  studios — Julien's,  Carlorossi's,  Delacluse's, 
disgorged  their  students.  He  did  not  see  Betty,  be- 
cause she  was  not  studying  at  any  of  these  places,  but 
tt  the  Atelier  Bianchi,  of  which  he  never  thought.  So 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  dined  again  with  Lady 
St.  Craye,  and  began  to  have  leisure  to  analyse  the 
emotions  with  which  she  inspired  him.  He  had  not 
believed  that  he  could  be  so  attracted  by  a  woman  with 
whom  he  had  played  the  entire  comedy,  from  first 
glance  to  last  tear — from  meeting  hands  to  severed 
hearts.  Yet  attracted  he  was,  and  strongly.  He  ex- 
perienced a  sort  of  resentment,  a  feeling  that  she  had 
kept  something  from  him,  that  she  had  reserves  of 
which  he  knew  nothing,  that  he,  who  in  his  blind  com- 
placency had  imagined  himself  to  have  sucked  the 
orange  and  thrown  away  the  skin,  had  really,  in  point 
of  fact,  had  a  strange  lovely  fruit  snatched  from  him 
before  his  blunt  teeth  had  done  more  than  nibble  at  its 
seemingly  commonplace  rind. 

In  the  old  days  she  had  reared  barriers  of  reserve, 
walls  of  reticence  over  which  he  could  see  so  easily ;  now 
she  posed  as  having  no  reserves,  and  he  seemed  to  him- 


148         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

self  to  be  following  her  through  a  darkling  wood, 
where  the  branches  flew  back  and  hit  him  in  the  face 
so  that  he  could  not  see  the  path. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "what  makes  it  so  delightful 
to  talk  to  you  is  that  I  can  say  exactly  what  I  like.  You 
won't  expect  me  to  be  clever,  or  shy,  or  any  of  those 
tiresome  things.  We  can  be  perfectly  frank  with  each 
other.  And  that's  such  a  relief,  isn't  it?" 

"I  wonder  whether  it  would  be — supposing  it  could 
be?"  said  he. 

They  were  driving  in  the  Bois,  among  the  autumn 
tinted  trees  where  the  pale  mist  wreaths  wandered  like 
ghosts  in  the  late  afternoon. 

"Of  course  it  could  be;  it  is,"  she  said,  opening  her 
eyes  at  him  under  the  brim  of  her  marvel  of  a  hat :  "at 
least  it  is  for  simple  folk  like  me.  Why  don't  you  wear 
a  window  in  your  breast  as  I  do?" 

She  laid  her  perfectly  gloved  hand  on  her  sables. 

"Is  there  really  a  window?  Can  one  see  into  your 
heart?" 

"One  can — not  the  rest.  Just  the  one  from  whom 
one  feareth  nothing,  expecteth  nothing,  hopeth  nothing. 
That's  out  of  the  Bible,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  near  enough,"  said  he.  "Of  course,  to  you  it's 
a  new  sensation  to  have  the  window  in  your  breast. 
Whereas  I,  from  innocent  childhood  to  earnest  man- 
hood, have  ever  been  open  as  the  day." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  were  always  transparent 
enough.  But  one  is  so  blind  when  one  is  in  love." 

Her  calm  references  to  the  past  always  piqued  him. 

"I  don't  think  Love  is  so  blind  as  he's  painted,"  he 
said :  "always  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  be  in  love  with  peo- 
ple I  begin  to  see  their  faults." 

"You  may  be  transparent,  but  you  haven't  a  good 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         149 

mirror,"  she  laughed;  "you  don't  see  yourself  as  you 
are.  It  isn't  when  you  begin  to  love  people  that  you  see 
their  faults,  is  it?  It's  really  when  they  begin  to  love 
you." 

"But  I  never  begin  to  love  people  till  they  begin  tq 
love  me.  I'm  too  modest." 

"And  I  never  love  people  after  they've  done  loving 
me.  I'm  too — " 

"Too  what?" 

"Too  something — forgetful,  is  it?  I  mean  it  takes 
two  to  make  a  quarrel,  and  it  certainly  takes  two  tq 
make  a  love  affair." 

"And  what  about  all  the  broken  hearts?" 

"What  broken  hearts?" 

"The  ones  you  find  in  the  poets  and  the  story 
books." 

"That's  just  where  you  do  find  them.  Nowhere 
else. — Now,  honestly,  has  your  heart  ever  been 
broken?" 

"Not  yet :  so  be  careful  how  you  play  with  it.  You 
don't  often  find  such  a  perfect  specimen — absolutely 
not  a  crack  or  a  chip." 

"The  pitcher  shouldn't  crow  too  loud — can  pitchers 
crow?  They  have  ears,  of  course,  but  only  the  little 
pitchers.  The  ones  that  go  to  the  well  should  go  in 
modest  silence." 

"Dear  Lady,"  he  said  almost  impatiently,  "what  is 
there  about  me  that  drives  my  friends  to  stick  up 
danger  boards  all  along  my  path?  'This  way  to  De- 
struction!' You  all  label  them.  I  am  always  being 
solemnly  warned  that  I  shall  get  my  heart  broken  one 
of  these  days,  if  I  don't  look  out." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  dear  Lady,"  she  said ; 
"it's  not  the  mode  any  more  now." 


1 50         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"What  may  I  call  you?"  he  had  to  ask,  turning  to 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"You  needn't  call  me  anything.  I  hate  being  called 
names.  That's  a  pretty  girl — not  the  dark  one,  the 
one  with  the  fur  hat." 

He  turned  to  look. 

Two  girls  were  walking  briskly  under  the  falling 
leaves.  And  the  one  with  the  fur  hat  was  Betty.  But 
it  was  at  the  other  that  he  gazed  even  as  he  returned 
Betty's  prim  little  bow.  He  even  turned  a  little  as  the 
carriage  passed,  to  look  more  intently  at  the  tall  figure 
in  shabby  black  whose  arm  Betty  held. 

"Well?"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  breaking  the  silence 
that  followed. 

"Well?"  said  he,  rousing  himself,  but  too  late.  "You 
were  saying  I  might  call  you — " 

"It's  not  what  I  was  saying — it's  what  you  were 
looking.  Who  is  the  girl,  and  why  don't  you  approve 
of  her  companion  ?" 

"Who  says  I  don't  wear  a  window  in  my  breast?" 
he  laughed.  "The  girl's  a  little  country  girl  I  knew  in 
England — I  didn't  know  she  was  in  Paris.  And  I 
thought  I  knew  the  woman,  too,  but  that's  impossible: 
it's  only  a  likeness." 

"One  nice  thing  about  me  is  that  I  never  ask  imperti- 
nent questions — or  hardly  ever.  That  one  slipped 
out  and  I  withdraw  it.  I  don't  want  to  know  anything 
about  anything  and  I'm  sorry  I  spoke.  I  see,  of  course, 
that  she  is  a  little  country  girl  you  knew  in  England, 
and  that  you  are  not  at  all  interested  in  her.  How  fast 
the  leaves  fall  now,  don't  they?" 

"No  question  of  your's  could  be  im — -  could  be  any- 
thing but  flattering.  But  since  you  are  interested — " 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said  politely. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          151 

"Oh,  but  do  be  interested,"  he  urged,  intent  on 
checking  her  inconvenient  interest,  "because,  really,  it 
is  rather  interesting  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  I 
was  painting  my  big  picture — I  wish  you'd  come  and 
see  it,  by  the  way.  Will  you  some  day,  and  have  tea 
in  my  studio?" 

"I  should  love  it.    When  shall  I  come?" 

"Whenever  you  will." 

He  wished  she  would  ask  another  question  about 
Betty,  but  she  wouldn't.  He  had  to  go  on,  a  little 
awkwardly. 

"Well,  I  only  knew  them  for  a  week — her  and  her 
aunt  and  her  father — and  she's  a  nice,  quiet  little 
thing.  The  father's  a  parson — all  of  them  are  all  that 
there  is  of  most  respectable." 

She  listened  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"And  I  was  rather  surprised  to  see  her  here.  And 
for  the  moment  I  thought  the  woman  with  her  was — 
well,  the  last  kind  of  woman  who  could  have  been  with 
her,  don't  you  know." 

"I  see,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye.  "Well,  it's  fortunate 
that  the  dark  woman  isn't  that  kind  of  woman.  No 
doubt  you'll  be  seeing  your  little  friend.  You  might 
ask  her  to  tea  when  I  come  to  see  your  picture." 

"I  wish  I  could."  Vernon's  manner  was  never  so 
frank  as  when  he  was  most  on  his  guard.  "She'd  love 
to  know  you.  I  wish  I  could  ask  them  to  tea,  but  I 
don't  know  them  well  enough.  And  their  address  I 
don't  know  at  all.  It's  a  pity ;  she's  a  nice  little  thing." 

It  was  beautifully  done.  Lady  St.  Craye  inwardly 
applauded  Vernon's  acting,  and  none  the  less  that  her 
own  part  had  grown  strangely  difficult.  She  was  sud- 
denly conscious  of  a  longing  to  be  alone — to  let  her 


1 52         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

face  go.  She  gave  herself  a  moment's  pause,  caught  at 
her  fine  courage  and  said : 

"Yes,  it  is  a  pity.  However,  I  daresay  it's  safer  for 
her  that  you  can't  ask  her  to  tea.  She  is  a  nice  little 
thing,  and  she  might  fall  in  love  with  you,  and  then, 
your  modesty  appeased,  you  might  follow  suit !  Isn't 
it  annoying  when  one  can't  pick  up  the  thread  of  a  con- 
versation? All  the  time  you've  been  talking  I've  been 
wondering  what  we  were  talking  about  before  I  pointed 
out  the  fur  hat  to  you.  And  I  nearly  remember,  and  I 
can't  quite.  That  is  always  so  worrying,  isn't  it?" 

Her  acting  was  as  good  as  his.  And  his  perception 
at  the  moment  less  clear  than  hers. 

He  gave  a  breath  of  relief.  It  would  never  have 
done  to  have  Lady  St.  Craye  spying  on  him  and  Betty ; 
and  now  he  knew  that  she  was  in  Paris  he  knew  too 
that  it  would  be  "him  and  Betty." 

"We  were  talking,"  he  said  carefully,  "about  calling 
names." 

"Oh,  thank  you! — When  one  can't  remember  those 
silly  little  things  it's  like  wanting  to  sneeze  and  not 
being  able  to,  isn't  it?  But  we  must  turn  back,  or  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner,  and  I  daren't  think  of  the 
names  my  hostess  will  call  me  then.  She  has  a  vocabu- 
lary, you  know."  She  named  a  name  and  Vernon 
thought  it  was  he  who  kept  the  talk  busy  among  ac- 
quaintances till  the  moment  for  parting.  Lady  St. 
Craye  knew  that  it  was  she. 

The  moment  Betty  had  bowed  to  Mr.  Vernon  she 
turned  her  head  in  answer  to  the  pressure  on  her  arm. 

"Who's  that?"  her  friend  asked. 

Betty  named  him,  and  in  a  voice  genuinely  uncon- 
cerned. 

"How  long  have  you  known  him  ?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         153 

"I  knew  him  for  a  week  last  Spring :  he  gave  me  a 
few  lessons.  He  is  a  great  favourite  of  my  aunt's,  but 
we  don't  know  him  much.  And  I  thought  he  was  in 
Vienna." 

"Does  he  know  where  you  are?" 

"No." 

"Then  mind  he  doesn't." 

"Why?" 

"Because  when  girls  are  living  alone  they  can't  be 
too  careful.  Remember  you're  the  person  that's  respon- 
sible for  Betty  Desmond  now.  You  haven't  your  aunt 
and  your  father  to  take  care  of  you." 

"I've  got  you,"  said  Betty  affectionately. 

"Yes,  you've  got  me,"  said  her  friend. 

Life  in  the  new  rooms  was  going  very  easily  and 
pleasantly.  Betty  had  covered  some  cushions  with  the 
soft  green  silk  of  an  old  evening  dress  Aunt  Julia  had 
given  her;  she  had  bought  chrysanthemums  in  pots; 
and  now  all  her  little  belongings,  the  same  that  had 
"given  the  cachet"  to  her  boudoir  bedroom  at  home 
lay  about,  and  here,  in  this  foreign  setting,  did  really 
stamp  the  room  with  a  pretty,  delicate,  conventional 
individuality.  The  embroidered  blotting-book,  the  sil- 
ver pen-tray,  the  wicker  work-basket  lined  with  blue 
satin,  the  long  worked  pin-cushion  stuck  with  Betty's 
sparkling  hat-pins, — all  these,  commonplace  at  Long 
Barton  were  here  not  commonplace.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  Paula's  lying  about.  She  had  brought  nothing 
with  her,  and  had  fetched  nothing  from  her  room  save 
clothes — dresses  and  hats  of  the  plainest. 

The  experiments  in  cooking  were  amusing;  so  were 
the  marketings  in  odd  little  shops  that  sold  what  one 
wanted,  and  a  great  many  things  that  one  had  never 
heard  of.  The  round  of  concerts  and  theatres  and 


154         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

tram-rides  had  not  begun  yet.  In  the  evenings  Betty 
drew,  while  Paula  read  aloud — from  the  library  of 
stray  Tauchnitz  books  Betty  had  gleaned  from  foreign 
book-stalls.  It  was  a  very  busy,  pleasant  home-life. 
And  the  studio  life  did  not  lack  interest. 

Betty  suffered  a  martyrdom  of  nervousness  when 
first — a  little  late — she  entered  the  Atelier.  It  is  a  large 
light  room;  a  semi-circular  alcove  at  one  end,  hung 
with  pleasant-coloured  drapery,  holds  a  grand  piano. 
All  along  one  side  are  big  windows  that  give  on  an  old 
garden — once  a  convent  garden  where  nuns  used  to 
walk,  telling  their  beads.  The  walls  are  covered  with 
sketches,  posters,  studies.  Betty  looked  nervously 
round — the  scene  was  agitatingly  unfamiliar.  The 
strange  faces,  the  girls  in  many-hued  painting  pina- 
fores, the  little  forest  of  easels,  and  on  the  square 
wooden  platform  the  model — smooth,  brown,  with 
limbs  set,  moveless  as  a  figure  of  wax. 

Betty  got  to  work,  as  soon  as  she  knew  how  one  be- 
gan to  get  to  work.  It  was  her  first  attempt  at  a  draw- 
ing from  the  life,  saving  certain  not  unsuccessful  cari- 
catures of  her  fellow  pupils,  her  professor  and  her  chap- 
eron. So  far  she  had  only  been  set  to  do  landscape, 
and  laborious  drawings  of  casts  from  the  antique.  The 
work  was  much  harder  than  she  had  expected.  And 
the  heat  was  overpowering.  She  wondered  how  these 
other  girls  could  stand  it.  Their  amused,  half-patro- 
nising, half-disdainful  glances  made  her  furious. 

She  rubbed  out  most  of  the  lines  she  had  put  in  and 
gasped  for  breath. 

The  room,  the  students,  the  naked  brown  girl  on  the 
model's  throne,  all  swam  before  her  eyes.  She  got  to 
the  door  somehow,  opened  and  shut  it,  and  found  her- 


"  Betty  looked  nervously  around — the  scene  was  agitatingly  unfamiliar 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         155 

self  sitting  on  the  top  stair  with  closed  eyelids  and  heart 
beating  heavily. 

Some  one  held  water  to  her  lips.  She  was  being 
fanned  with  a  handkerchief. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it's  hotter  than  usual  to-day,"  said  the  hand- 
kerchief-holder, fanning  vigorously. 

"Why  do  they  have  it  so  hot?"  asked  poor  Betty. 

"Because  of  the  model,  of  course.  Poor  thing!  she 
hasn't  got  a  nice  blue  gown  and  a  pinky-greeny  pina- 
fore to  keep  her  warm.  We  have  to  try  to  match  the 
garden  of  Eden  climate — when  we're  drawing  from  a 
girl  who's  only  allowed  to  use  Eve's  fashion  plates." 

Betty  laughed  and  opened  her  eyes. 

"How  jolly  of  you  to  come  out  after  me,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  the  same  at  first.  All  right  now? 
I  ought  to  get  back.  You  just  sit  here  till  you  feel  fit 
again.  So  long !" 

So  Betty  sat  there  on  the  bare  wide  brown  stair, 
staring  at  the  window,  till  things  had  steadied  them- 
selves, and  then  she  went  back  to  her  work. 

Her  easel  was  there,  and  her  half-rubbed  out  draw- 
ing— No,  that  was  not  her  drawing.  It  was  a  head, 
vaguely  but  very  competently  sketched,  a  likeness — no, 
a  caricature — of  Betty  herself. 

She  looked  round — one  quick  but  quite  sufficient 
look.  The  girl  next  her,  and  the  one  to  that  girl's 
right,  were  exchanging  glances,  and  the  exchange 
ceased  just  too  late.  Betty  saw. 

From  then  till  the  rest  Betty  did  not  look  at  the 
model.  She  looked,  but  furtively,  at  those  two  girls. 
When,  at  the  rest-time,  the  model  stretched  and 
yawned  and  got  off  her  throne  and  into  a  striped  petti- 


156        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

coat,  most  of  the  students  took  their  "easy"  on  tlic 
stairs:  among  these  the  two. 

Betty,  who  never  lacked  courage,  took  charcoal  in 
hand  and  advanced  quite  boldly  to  the  easel  next  to  her 
own. 

How  she  envied  the  quality  of  the  drawing  she  saw 
there.  But  envy  does  not  teach  mercy.  The  little 
sketch  that  Betty  left  on  the  corner  of  the  drawing  was 
quite  as  faithful,  and  far  more  cruel,  than  the  one  on 
her  own  paper.  Then  she  went  on  to  the  next  easel. 
The  few  students  who  were  chatting  to  the  model 
looked  curiously  at  her  and  giggled  among  themselves. 

When  the  rest  was  over  and  the  model  had  reas- 
sumed,  quite  easily  and  certainly,  that  pose  of  the 
uplifted  arms  which  looked  so  difficult,  the  students 
trooped  back  and  the  two  girls — Betty's  enemies,  as 
she  bitterly  felt — returned  to  their  easels.  They  looked 
at  their  drawings,  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  they 
looked  at  Betty.  And  when  they  looked  at  her  they 
smiled. 

"Well  done!"  the  girl  next  her  said  softly.  "For  a 
tenderfoot  you  hit  back  fairly  straight.  I  guess  you'll 
do!" 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Betty  haughtily. 

"Don't  you  get  your  quills  up,"  said  the  girl.  "I  hit 
first,  but  you  hit  hardest.  I  don't  know  you, — but  I 
want  to." 

She  smiled  so  queer  yet  friendly  a  smile  that  Betty's 
haughtiness  had  to  dissolve  in  an  answering  smile. 

"My  name's  Betty  Desmond,"  she  said.  "I  wonder 
why  you  wanted  to  hit  a  man  when  he  was  down." 

"My!"  said  the  girl,  "how  was  I  to  surmise  about 
you  being  down?  You  looked  dandy  enough — fit  to 
lick  all  creation." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        157 

"I've  never  been  in  a  studio  before,"  said  Betty,  fix- 
ing fresh  paper. 

"My!"  said  the  girl  again.  "Turn  the  faucet  off 
now.  The  model  don't  like  us  to  whisper.  Can't 
stand  the  draught." 

So  Betty  was  silent,  working  busily.  But  next  day 
she  was  greeted  with  friendly  nods  and  she  had  some 
one  to  speak  to  in  the  rest-intervals. 

On  the  third  day  she  was  asked  to  a  studio  party 
by  the  girl  who  had  fanned  her  on  the  stairs.  "And 
bring  your  friend  with  you,"  she  said. 

But  Betty's  friend  had  a  headache  that  day.  Betty 
went  alone  and  came  home  full  of  the  party. 

"She's  got  such  a  jolly  studio,"  she  said;  "ever  so 
high  up, — and  busts  and  casts  and  things.  Everyone 
was  so  nice  to  me  you  can't  think:  it  was  just  like  what 
one  hears  of  Girton  Cocoa  parties.  We  had  tea — such 
weak  tea,  Paula,  it  could  hardly  crawl  out  of  the  tea- 
pot! We  had  it  out  of  green  basins.  And  the  loveliest 
cakes !  There  were  only  two  chairs,  so  some  of  us  sat 
on  the  sommier  and  the  rest  on  the  floor." 

"Were  there  any  young  men?"  asked  Paula. 

"Two  or  three  very,  very  young  ones — they  came 
late.  But  they  might  as  well  have  been  girls;  there 
wasn't  any  flirting  or  nonsense  of  that  sort,  Paula. 
Don't  you  think  we  might  give  a  party — not  now,  but 
presently,  when  we  know  some  more  people?  Do  you 
think  they'd  like  it?  Or  would  they  think  it  a  bore?" 

"They'd  love  it,  I  should  think."  Paula  looked 
round  the  room  which  already  she  loved.  "And  what 
did  you  all  talk  about?" 

"Work,"  said  Betty,  "work  and  work  and  work  and 
work  and  work :  everyone  talked  about  their  work,  and 
everyone  else  listened  and  watched  for  the  chance  to 


158        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

begin  to  talk  about  theirs.  This  is  real  life,  my  dear. 
I  am  so  glad  I'm  beginning  to  know  people.  Miss  Vos- 
coe  is  very  queer,  but  she's  a  dear.  She's  the  one  who 
caricatured  me  the  first  day.  Oh,  we  shall  do  now, 
shan't  we?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "you'll  do  now." 
"I  said  'we,'  "  Betty  corrected  softly. 
"I  meant  we,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Conway, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
CONTRASTS. 

Vernon's  idea  of  a  studio  was  a  place  to  work  in,  a 
place  where  there  should  be  room  for  all  the  tools  of 
one's  trade,  and  besides,  a  great  space  to  walk  up  and 
down  in  those  moods  that  seize  on  all  artists  when  their 
work  will  not  come  as  they  want  it. 

But  when  he  gave  tea-parties  he  had  store  of  draper- 
ies to  pull  out  from  his  carved  cupboard,  deeply  col- 
oured things  embroidered  in  rich  silk  and  heavy  gold — 
Chinese,  Burmese,  Japanese,  Russian. 

He  came  in  to-day  with  an  armful  of  fair  chrysan- 
themums, deftly  set  them  in  tall  brazen  jars,  pulled  out 
his  draperies  and  arranged  them  swiftly.  There  was 
a  screen  to  be  hung  with  a  Chinese  mandarin's  dress, 
where,  on  black,  gold  dragons  writhed  squarely  among 
blue  roses;  the  couch  was  covered  by  a  red  burnous 
with  a  gold  border.  There  were  Persian  praying  mats 
to  lay  on  the  bare  floor,  kakemonos  to  be  fastened  with 
drawing  pins  on  the  bare  walls.  A  tea  cloth  worked  by 
Russian  peasants  lay  under  the  tea-cups — two  only — of 
yellow  Chinese  egg-shell  ware.  His  tea-pot  and  cream- 
jug  were  Queen  Anne  silver,  heirlooms  at  which  he 
mocked.  But  he  saw  to  it  that  they  were  kept  bright. 

He  lighted  the  spirit-lamp. 

"She  was  always  confoundedly  punctual,"  he  said. 

But  to-day  Lady  St.  Craye  was  not  punctual.    She 

159 


160         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

arrived  half  an  hour  late,  and  the  delay  had  given  her 
host  time  to  think  about  her. 

He  heard  her  voice  in  the  courtyard  at  last — but  the 
only  window  that  looked  that  way  was  set  high  in  the 
wall  of  the  little  corridor,  and  he  could  not  see  who  it 
was  to  whom  she  was  talking.  And  he  wondered,  be- 
cause the  inflection  of  her  voice  was  English — not  the 
exquisite  imitation  of  the  French  inflexion  which  he 
had  so  often  admired  in  her. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  to  the  stair  head.  The 
voices  were  coming  up  the  steps. 

"A  caller,"  said  Vernon,  and  added  a  word  or  two. 
However  little  you  may  be  in  love  with  a  woman,  two 
is  better  company  than  three. 

The  voices  came  up.  He  saw  the  golden  brown 
shimmer  of  Lady  St.  Craye's  hat,  and  knew  that  it 
matched  her  hair  and  that  there  would  be  violets  some- 
where under  the  brim  of  it — violets  that  would  make 
her  eyes  look  violet  too.  She  was  coming  up — a  man 
just  behind  her.  She  came  round  the  last  turn,  and  the 
man  was  Temple. 

"What  an  Alpine  ascent!"  she  exclaimed,  reaching 
up  her  hand  so  that  Vernon  drew  her  up  the  last  three 
steps.  "We  have  been  hunting  you  together,  on  both 
the  other  staircases.  Now  that  the  chase  is  ended, 
won't  you  present  your  friend?  And  I'll  bow  to  him 
as  soon  as  I'm  on  firm  ground !" 

Vernon  made  the  presentation  and  held  the  door 
open  for  Lady  St.  Craye  to  pass.  As  she  did  so  Tem- 
ple behind  her  raised  eyebrows  which  said : 

"Am  I  inconvenient?  Shall  I  borrow  a  book  or 
something  and  go?" 

Vernon  shook  his  head.    It  was  annoying,  but  inevit- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          161 

able.  He  could  only  hope  that  Lady  St.  Craye  also 
was  disappointed. 

"How  punctual  you  are,"  he  said.  "Sit  here,  won't 
you? — I  hadn't  finished  laying  the  table."  He  delib- 
erately brought  out  four  more  cups.  "What  unnatural 
penetration  you  have,  Temple !  How  did  you  find  out 
that  this  is  the  day  when  I  sit  'at  home'  and  wait  for 
people  to  come  and  buy  my  pictures  ?" 

"And  no  one's  come?"  Lady  St.  Craye  had  sunk  into 
the  chair  and  was  pulling  off  her  gloves.  "That's  very 
disappointing.  I  thought  I  should  meet  dozens  of 
clever  and  interesting  people,  and  I  only  meet  two." 

Her  brilliant  smile  made  the  words  seem  neither 
banal  nor  impertinent. 

Vernon  was  pleased  to  note  that  he  was  not  the  only 
one  who  was  disappointed. 

"You  are  too  kind,"  he  said  gravely. 

Temple  was  looking  around  the  room. 

"Jolly  place  you've  got  here,"  he  said,  "but  it's  hard 
to  find.  I  should  have  gone  off  in  despair  if  I  hadn't 
met  Lady  St.  Craye." 

"We  kept  each  other's  courage  up,  didn't  we,  Mr. 
Temple?  It  was  like  arctic  explorers.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  we  should  have  to  make  a  camp  and  cook 
my  muff  for  tea." 

She  held  out  the  sable  and  Vernon  laid  it  on  the 
couch  when  he  had  held  it  to  his  face  for  a  moment. 

"I  love  the  touch  of  fur,"  he  said ;  "and  your  fur  is 
scented  with  the  scent  of  summer  gardens,  'open  jas- 
mine muffled  lattices/  "  he  quoted  softly.  Temple  had 
wandered  to  the  window. 

"What  ripping  roofs !"  he  said.  "Can  one  get  out  on 
them?" 


162         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Now  what,"  demanded  Vernon,  "is  the  hidden 
mainspring  that  impels  every  man  who  comes  into  these 
rooms  to  ask,  instantly,  whether  one  can  get  out  on  to 
the  roof?  It's  only  Englishmen,  by  the  way;  Ameri- 
cans never  ask  it,  nor  Frenchmen." 

"It's  the  exploring  spirit,  I  suppose,"  said  Temple 
idly;  "the  spirit  that  has  made  England  the  Empire 
which — et  cetera." 

"On  which  the  sun  never  sets.  Yes — but  I  think  the 
sunset  would  be  one  of  the  attractions  of  your  roof,  Mr. 
Vernon." 

"Sunset  is  never  attractive  to  me,"  said  he,  "nor  Au- 
tumn. Give  me  sunrise,  and  Spring." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  "you  only  like  be- 
ginnings. Even  Summer — " 

"Even  Summer,  as  you  say,"  he  answered  equably. 
"The  sketch  is  always  so  much  better  than  the  picture." 

"I  believe  that  is  your  philosophy  of  life,"  said 
Temple. 

"This  man,"  Vernon  explained,  "spends  his  days  in 
doing  ripping  etchings  and  black  and  white  stuff  and 
looking  for  my  philosophy  of  life." 

"One  would  like  to  see  that  in  black  and  white.  Will 
you  etch  it  for  me,  Mr.  Temple,  when  you  find  it  ?" 

"I  don't  think  the  medium  would  be  adequate,"  Tem- 
ple said.  "I  haven't  found  it  yet,  but  I  should  fancy  it 
would  be  rather  highly  coloured." 

"Iridescent,  perhaps.  Did  you  ever  speculate  as  to 
the  colour  of  people's  souls?  I'm  quite  sure  every  soul 
has  a  colour." 

"What  is  yours?"  asked  Vernon  of  course. 

"I'm  too  humble  to  tell  you.  But  some  souls  are 
thick — body-colour,  don't  you  know — and  some  are 
clear  like  jewels." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         163 

"And  mine's  an  opal,  is  it?" 

"With  more  green  in  it,  perhaps;  you  know  the 
lovely  colour  on  the  dykes  in  the  marshes?" 

"Stagnant  water ?    Thank  you!" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is.  It  has  some  hateful  chemi- 
cal name,  I  daresay.  They  have  vases  the  colour  I 
mean,  mounted  in  silver,  at  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores." 

"And  your  soul — it  is  a  pearl,  isn't  it?" 

"Never!  Nothing  opaque.  If  you  will  force  my 
modesty  to  the  confession  I  believe  in  my  heart  that 
it  is  a  sapphire.  True  blue,  don't  you  know!" 

"And  Temple's — but  you've  not  known  him  long 
enough  to  judge." 

"So  it's  no  use  my  saying  that  I  am  sure  his  soul  is 
a  dewdrop." 

"To  be  dried  up  by  the  sun  of  life?"  Temple  ques- 
tioned. 

"No — to  be  hardened  into  a  diamond — by  the  fire  of 
life.  No,  don't  explain  that  dewdrops  don't  harden 
into  diamonds.  I  know  I'm  not  scientific,  but  I  hon- 
estly did  mean  to  be  complimentary.  Isn't  your  kettle 
boiling  over,  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

Lady  St.  Craye's  eyes,  while  they  delicately  condoled 
vith  Vernon  on  the  spoiling  of  his  tete-a-tete  with  her, 
were  also  made  to  indicate  a  certain  interest  in  the 
spoiler.  Temple  was  more  than  six  feet  high,  well 
built.  He  had  regular  features  and  clear  gray  eyes, 
with  well-cut  cases  and  very  long  dark  lashes.  His 
mouth  was  firm  and  its  lines  were  good.  But  for  his 
close-cropped  hair  and  for  a  bearing  at  once  frank, 
assured,  and  modest,  he  would  have  been  much  hand- 
somer than  a  man  has  any  need  to  be.  But  his  expres- 


164         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

sion  saved  him.  No  one  had  ever  called  him  a  barber's 
block  or  a  hairdresser's  apprentice. 

To  Temple  Lady  St.  Craye  appeared  the  most 
charming  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  It  was  an  effect 
which  she  had  the  habit  of  producing.  He  had  said 
of  her  in  his  haste  that  she  was  all  clothes  and  no  wom- 
an, now  he  saw  that  on  the  contrary  the  clothes  were 
quite  intimately  part  of  the  woman,  and  took  such  value 
as  they  had,  from  her. 

She  carried  her  head  with  the  dainty  alertness  of  a 
beautiful  bird.  She  had  a  gift  denied  to  most  English- 
women— the  genius  for  wearing  clothes.  No  one  had 
ever  seen  her  dress  dusty  or  crushed,  her  hat  crooked. 
No  uncomfortable  accidents  ever  happened  to  her. 
Blacks  never  settled  on  her  face,  the  buttons  never  came 
off  her  gloves,  she  never  lost  her  umbrella,  and  in  the 
windiest  weather  no  loose  untidy  wisps  escaped  from 
her  thick  heavy  shining  hair  to  wander  unbecomingly 
round  the  ears  that  were  pearly  and  pink  like  the  little 
shells  of  Vanessae.  Some  of  the  women  who  hated  her 
used  to  say  that  she  dyed  her  hair.  It  was  certainly 
very  much  lighter  than  her  brows  and  lashes.  To-day 
she  was  wearing  a  corduroy  dress  of  a  gold  some 
shades  grayer  than  the  gold  of  her  hair.  Sable  trimmed 
it,  and  violet  silk  lined  the  loose  sleeves  and  the  coat, 
now  unfastened  and  thrown  back.  There  were,  as 
Vernon  had  known  there  would  be,  violets  under  the 
brim  of  the  hat  that  matched  her  hair. 

The  chair  in  which  she  sat  wore  a  Chinese  blue  drap- 
ery. The  yellow  tea-cups  gave  the  highest  note  in  the 
picture. 

"If  I  were  Whistler,  I  should  ask  you  to  let  me  paint 
your  portrait  like  that — yes,  with  my  despicable  yellow 
tea-cup  in  your  honourable  hand." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         165 

"If  you  were  Mr.  Whistler — or  anything  in  the  least 
like  Mr.  Whistler — I  shouldn't  be  drinking  tea  out  of 
your  honourable  tea-cup,"  she  said.  "Do  you  really 
think,  Mr.  Temple,  that  one  ought  not  to  say  one 
doesn't  like  people  just  because  they're  dead?" 

He  had  been  thinking  something  a  little  like  it. 

"Well,"  he  said  rather  awkwardly,  "you  see  dead 
people  can't  hit  back." 

"No  more  can  live  ones  when  you  don't  hit  them, 
but  only  stick  pins  in  their  effigies.  I'd  rather  speak 
ill  of  the  dead  than  the  living." 

"Yet  it  doesn't  seem  fair,  somehow,"  Temple  in- 
sisted. 

"But  why?  No  one  can  go  and  tell  the  poor  things 
what  people  are  saying  of  them.  You  don't  go  and 
unfold  a  shroud  just  to  whisper  in  a  corpse's  ear:  'It 
was  horrid  of  her  to  say  it,  but  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know,  dear.' — And  if  you  did,  they  wouldn't  lie  awake 
at  night  worrying  over  it  as  the  poor  live  people  do. — 
No  more  tea,  thank  you." 

"Do  you  really  think  anyone  worries  about  what 
anyone  says?" 

"Don't  you,  Mr,  Temple?" 

He  reflected. 

"He  never  has  anything  to  worry  about,"  Vernon 
put  in ;  "no  one  ever  says  anything  unkind  about  him. 
The  cruelest  thing  anyone  ever  said  of  him  was  that 
he  would  make  as  excellent  a  husband  as  Albert  the 
Good." 

"The  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life?  My  felicita- 
tions," Lady  St.  Craye  smiled  them. 

Temple  flushed. 

"Now  isn't  it  odd,"  Vernon  asked,  "that  however 
much  one  plumes  oneself  on  one's  blamelessness,  one 


166         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

hates  to  hear  it  attributed  to  one  by  others?  One  is 
good  by  stealth  and  blushes  to  find  it  fame.  I  my- 
self—" 

"Yes !"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  with  an  accent  of  final- 
ity. 

"What  a  man  really  likes  is  to  be  saint  with  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  bit  of  a  devil." 

"And  a  woman  likes,  you  think,  to  be  a  bit  of  a 
devil,  with  the  reputation  of  a  saint?" 

"Or  a  bit  of  a  saint  with  a  reputation  that  rhymes  to 
the  reality.  It's  the  reputation  that's  important,  isn't 
it?" 

"Isn't  the  inward  truth  the  really  important  thing?" 
said  Temple  rather  heavily. 

Lady  St.  Craye  looked  at  him  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  him  understand  that  she  understood.  Vernon 
looked  at  them  both,  and  turning  to  the  window 
looked  out  on  his  admired  roofs. 

"Yes,"  she  said  very  softly,  "but  one  doesn't  talk 
about  that,  any  more  than  one  does  of  one's  prayers 
or  one's  love  affairs." 

The  plural  vexed  Temple,  and  he  told  himself  how 
unreasonable  the  vexation  was. 

Lady  St.  Craye  turned  her  charming  head  to  look  at 
him,  to  look  at  Vernon.  One  had  been  in  love  with  her. 
The  other  might  be.  There  is  in  the  .world  no  better 
company  than  this. 

Temple,  always  deeply  uninterested  in  women's 
clothes,  was  noting  the  long,  firm  folds  of  her  skirt. 
Vernon  had  turned  from  the  window  to  approve  the 
loving  closeness  of  those  violets  against  her  hair.  Lady 
St.  Craye  in  her  graceful  attitude  of  conscious  uncon- 
sciousness was  the  focus  of  their  eyes. 

"Here  comes  a  millionaire,  to  buy  your  pictures," 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          167 

she  said  suddenly, — "no — a  millionairess,  by  the  sound 
of  her  high-heeled  shoes.  How  beautiful  are  the 
feet—" 

The  men  had  heard  nothing,  but  following  hard  on 
her  words  came  the  sound  of  footsteps  along  the  little 
corridor,  an  agitated  knock  on  the  door. 

Vernon  opened  the  door — to  Betty. 

"Oh — come  in,"  he  said  cordially,  and  his  pause  of 
absolute  astonishment  was  brief  as  an  eye-flash.  "This 
is  delightful—" 

And  as  she  passed  into  the  room  he  caught  her  eyes 
and,  looking  a  warning,  said :  "I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you.  I  began  to  be  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  able  to 
come." 

"I  saw  you  in  the  Bois  the  other  day,"  said  Lady  St. 
Craye,  "and  I  have  been  wanting  to  know  you  ever 
since." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Betty.  Her  hat  was  on 
one  side,  her  hair  was  very  untidy,  and  it  was  not  a 
becoming  untidiness  either.  She  had  no  gloves,  and  a 
bit  of  the  velvet  binding  of  her  skirt  was  loose.  Her 
eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  crying.  There  was  a 
black  smudge  on  her  cheek. 

"Take  this  chair,"  said  Vernon,  and  moved  a  com- 
fortable one  with  its  back  to  the  light. 

"Temple — let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Desmond." 

Temple  bowed,  with  no  flicker  of  recognition  visible 
in  his  face.  But  Betty,  flushing  scarlet,  said : 

"Mr.  Temple  and  I  have  met  before." 

There  was  the  tiniest  pause.  Then  Temple  said :  "I 
am  so  glad  to  meet  you  again.  I  thought  you  had  per- 
haps left  Paris." 

"Let  me  give  you  some  tea,"  said  Vernon. 

Tea  was   made  for  her, — and   conversation.      She 


168         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

drank  the  tea,  but  she  seemed  not  to  know  what  to  do 
with  the  conversation. 

It  fluttered,  aimlessly,  like  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing. 
Lady  St.  Craye  did  her  best,  but  talk  is  not  easy  when 
each  one  of  a  party  has  its  own  secret  pre-occupying 
interest,  and  an  overlapping  interest  in  the  preoccupa- 
tion of  the  others.  The  air  was  too  electric. 

Lady  St.  Craye  had  it  on  her  lips  that  she  must  go — • 
when  Betty  rose  suddenly. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  generally,  looking  round  with 
miserable  eyes  that  tried  to  look  merely  polite. 

"Must  you  go?"  asked  Vernon,  furious  with  the 
complicated  emotions  that,  warring  in  him,  left  him 
just  as  helpless  as  anyone  else. 

"I  do  hope  we  shall  meet  again,"  said  Lady  St. 
Craye. 

"Mayn't  I  see  you  home?"  asked  Temple  unexpect- 
edly, even  to  himself. 

Betty's  "No,  thank  you,"  was  most  definite. 

She  went.  Vernon  had  to  let  her  go.  He  had  guests. 
He  could  not  leave  them.  He  had  lost  wholly  his  ordi- 
nary control  of  circumstances.  All  through  the  petri- 
fying awkwardness  of  the  late  talk  he  had  been  seek- 
ing an  excuse  to  go  with  Betty — to  find  out  what  was 
the  matter. 

He  closed  the  door  and  came  back.  There  was  no 
help  for  it. 

But  there  was  help.  Lady  St.  Craye  gave  it.  She 
rose  as  Vernon  came  back. 

"Quick!"  she  said,  "Shall  we  go?  Hadn't  you  bet- 
ter bring  her  back  here?  Go  after  her  at  once." 

"You're  an  angel,"  said  Vernon.  "No,  don't  go. 
Temple,  look  after  Lady  St.  Craye.  If  you'll  not  think 
me  rude? — Miss  Desmond  is  in  trouble,  I'm  afraid." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         169 

"Of  course  she  is — poor  little  thing.  Oh,  Mr.  Ver- 
non,  do  run!  She  looks  quite  despairing.  There's 
your  hat.  Go — go !" 

The  door  banged  behind  her. 

The  other  two,  left  alone,  looked  at  each  other. 

"I  wonder — "  said  she. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it's  certainly  mysterious." 

"We  ought  to  have  gone  at  once,"  said  she.  "I 
should  have  done,  of  course,  only  Mr.  Vernon  so  elab- 
orately explained  that  he  expected  her.  One  had  to 
play  up.  And  so  she's  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"She's  not  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Temple  rather 
ruefully,  "and  I  didn't  know  Vernon  was  a  friend  of 
hers.  You  saw  that  she  wouldn't  have  my  company 
at  any  price."  $:j  . 

"Mr.  Vernon's  a  friend  of  her  people,  I  believe.  We 
saw  her  the  other  day  in  the  Bois,  and  he  told  me  he 
knew  them  in  England.  Did  you  know  them  there  too? 
Poor  child,  what  a  woe-begone  little  face  it  was !" 

"No,  not  in  England.  I  met  her  in  Paris  about  a 
fortnight  ago,  but  she  didn't  like  me,  from  the  first,  and 
our  acquaintance  broke  off  short."  , 

There  was  a  silence.  Lady  St.  Craye  perceived  a 
ring-fence  of  reticence  round  the  subject  that  interested 
her,  and  knew  that  she  had  no  art  strong  enough  to 
break  it  down. 

She  spoke  again  suddenly : 

"Do  you  know  you're  not  a  bit  the  kind  of  man  I  ex- 
pected you  to  be,  Mr.  Temple?  I've  heard  so  much 
of  you  from  Mr.  Vernon.  We're  such  old  friends,  you 
know." 

"Apparently  he  can't  paint  so  well  with  words  as 
he  does  with  oils.  May  I  ask  exactly  how  flattering  the 
portrait  was?" 


170         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"It  wasn't  flattering  at  all. — In  fact  it  wasn't  a  por- 
trait." 

"A  caricature?" 

"But  you  don't  mind  what  people  say  of  you,  do 
you?" 

"You  are  trying  to  frighten  me." 

"No,  really,"  she  said  with  pretty  earnestness;  "it's 
only  that  he  has  always  talked  about  you  as  his  best 
friend,  and  I  imagined  you  would  be  like  him." 

Temple's  uneasy  wonderings  about  Betty's  trouble, 
her  acquaintance  with  Vernon,  the  meaning  of  her 
visit  to  him,  were  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  mind. 

"I  wish  I  were  like  him,"  said  he, — "at  any  rate,  in 
his  paintings." 

"At  any  rate — yes.  But  one  can't  have  everything, 
you  know.  You  have  qualities  which  he  hasn't — quali- 
ties that  you  wouldn't  exchange  for  any  qualities  of 
his." 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant ;  I — the  fact  is,  I  like  old 
Vernon,  but  I  can't  understand  him." 

"That  philosophy  of  life  eludes  you  still?  Now,  I 
understand  him,  but  I  don't  always  like  him — not  all 
of  him." 

"I  wonder  whether  anyone  understands  him  ?" 

"He's  not  such  a  sphinx  as  he  looks!"  Her  tone 
betrayed  a  slight  pique — "Now,  your  character  would 
be  much  harder  to  read.  That's  one  of  the  differ- 
ences." 

"We  are  all  transparent  enough — to  those  wrho  look 
through  the  right  glasses,"  said  Temple.  "And  part 
of  my  character  is  my  inability  to  find  any  glass 
through  which  I  could  see  him  clearly." 

This  comparison  of  his  character  and  Vernon's,  with 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          171 

its  sudden  assumption  of  intimacy,  charmed  yet  em- 
barrassed him. 

She  saw  both  emotions  and  pitied  him  a  little.  But 
it  was  necessary  to  interest  this  young  man  enough  to 
keep  him  there  till  Vernon  should  return.  Then  Ver- 
non  would  see  her  home,  and  she  might  find  out  some- 
thing, however  little,  about  Betty.  But  if  this  young 
man  went  she  too  must  go.  She  could  not  outstay  him 
in  the  rooms  of  his  friend.  So  she  talked  on,  and  Tem- 
ple was  just  as  much  at  her  mercy  as  Betty  had  been  at 
the  mercy  of  the  brother  artist  in  the  rabbit  warren  at 
Long  Barton. 

But  at  seven  o'clock  Vernon  had  not  returned,  and 
it  was,  after  all,  Temple  who  saw  her  home. 

Temple,  free  from  the  immediate  enchantment  of 
her  presence,  felt  the  revival  of  a  resentful  curiosity. 

Why  had  Betty  refused  his  help?  Why  had  she 
sought  Vernon's  ?  Why  did  women  treat  him  as  though 
he  were  a  curate  and  Vernon  as  though  he  were  a  god  ? 
WTell — Lady  St.  Craye  at  least  had  not  treated  him  as 
curates  are  treated. 


ft- 


CHAPTER  XIV, 
RENUNCIATION. 

Vernon  tore  down  the  stairs  three  and  four  at  a 
time,  and  caught  Betty  as  she  was  stepping  into  a 
hired  carriage. 

"What  is  it ?"  he  asked.    "What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  go  back  to  your  friends!"  said  Betty  angrily. 

"My  friends  are  all  right.  They'll  amuse  each 
Other.  Tell  me." 

"Then  you  must  come  with  me,"  said  she.  "If  I 
try  to  tell  you  here  I  shall  begin  to  cry  again.  Don't 
speak  to  me.  I  can't  bear  it." 

He  got  into  the  carriage.  It  was  not  until  Betty  had 
let  herself  into  her  room  and  he  had  followed  her  in — 
not  till  they  stood  face  to  face  in  the  middle  of  the  car- 
pet that  he  spoke  again. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?  Where's  your  aunt, 
and—" 

"  Sit  down,  won't  you?"  she  said,  pulling  off  her  hat 
and  throwing  it  on  the  couch;  "it'll  take  rather  a  long 
time  to  tell,  but  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it,  or  else  you 
can't  help  me.  And  if  you  don't  help  me  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do." 

Despair  was  in  her  voice. 

He  sat  down.  Betty,  in  the  chair  opposite  his,  sat 
with  hands  nervously  locked  together. 

"Look  here,"  she  said  abruptly,  "you're  sure  to 
172 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         173 

think  that  everything  I've  done  is  wrong,  but  it's  no 
use  your  saying  so." 

"I  won't  say  so." 

"Well,  then — that  day,  you  know,  after  I  saw  you 
at  the  Bete — Madame  Gautier  didn't  come  to  fetch  me, 
and  I  waited,  and  waited,  and  at  last  I  went  to  her  flat, 
and  she  was  dead, — and  I  ought  to  have  telegraphed  to 
my  step-father  to  fetch  me,  but  I  thought  I  would  like 
to  have  one  night  in  Paris  first — you  know  I  hadn't 
seen  Paris  at  all,  really." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  trying  not  to  let  any  anxiety  into  his 
voice.  "Yes — go  on." 

"And  I  went  to  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt— What  did 
you  say?" 

"Nothing." 

"I  thought  it  was  where  the  art  students  went.  And 
I  met  a  girl  there,  and  she  was  kind  to  me." 

"What  sort  of  a  girl ?    Not  an  art  student?" 

"No,"  said  Betty  hardly,  "she  wasn't  an  art  stu- 
dent. She  told  me  what  she  was." 

"Yes?" 

"And  I — I  don't  think  I  should  have  done  it  just  for 
me  alone,  but — I  did  want  to  stay  in  Paris  and  work — 
and  I  wanted  to  help  her  to  be  good — she  is  good 
really,  in  spite  of  everything.  Oh,  I  know  you're  hor- 
ribly shocked,  but  I  can't  help  it !  And  now  she's  gone, 
— and  I  can't  find  her." 

"I'm  not  shocked,"  he  said  deliberately,  "but  I'm 
extremely  stupid.  How  gone?" 

"She  was  living  with  me  here. — Oh,  she  found  the 
rooms  and  showed  me  where  to  go  for  meals  and  gave 
me  good  advice — oh,  she  did  everything  for  me !  And 
now  she's  gone.  And  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Paris 
is  such  a  horrible  place.  Perhaps  she's  been  kidnapped 


174         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

or  something.  And  I  don't  know  even  how  to  tell  the 
police.  And  all  this  time  I'm  talking  to  you  is  wasted 
time." 

"It  isn't  wasted.  But  I  must  understand.  You  met 
this  girl  and  she — " 

"She  asked  your  friend  Mr.  Temple — he  was  pass- 
ing and  she  called  out  to  him — to  tell  me  of  a  decent 
hotel,  but  he  asked  so  many  questions.  He  gave  me 
an  address  and  I  didn't  go.  I  went  back  to  her,  and  we 
went  to  a  hotel  and  I  persuaded  her  to  come  and  live 
with  me." 

"But  your  aunt?" 

Betty  explained  about  her  aunt. 

"And  your  father?" 

She  explained  about  her  father. 

"And  now  she  has  gone,  and  you  want  to  find  her  ?" 

"Want  to  find  her?" — Betty  started  up  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room. — "I  don't  care  about  any- 
thing else  in  the  world !  She's  a  dear ;  you  don't  know 
what  a  dear  she  is — and  I  know  she  was  happy  here — 
and  now  she's  gone!  I  never  had  a  girl  friend  before 
—what?" 

Vernon  had  winced,  just  as  Paula  had  winced,  and 
at  the  same  words. 

"You've  looked  for  her  at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt?" 

"No;  I  promised  her  that  I'd  never  go  there  again." 

"She  seems  to  have  given  you  some  good  advice." 

"She  advised  me  not  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
you,"  said  Betty,  suddenly  spiteful. 

"That  was  good  advice — when  she  gave  it,"  said 
Vernon,  quietly;  "but  now  it's  different." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  realising  with  a  wonder 
beyond  words  how  different  it  was.  Every  word, 
every  glance  between  him  and  Betty  had,  hitherto,  been 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          175 

part  of  a  play.  She  had  been  a  charming  figure  in  a 
charming  comedy.  He  had  known,  as  it  were  by  rote, 
that  she  had  feelings — a  heart,  affections — but  they 
had  seemed  pale,  dream-like,  just  a  delightful  back- 
ground to  his  own  sensations,  strong  and  conscious  and 
delicate.  Now  for  the  first  time  he  perceived  her  as 
real,  a  human  being  in  the  stress  of  a  real  human  emo- 
tion. And  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  protective 
tenderness,  a  real,  open-air  primitive  sentiment,  with 
no  smell  of  the  footlights  about  it.  He  was  alone  with 
Betty.  He  was  the  only  person  in  Paris  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  help.  What  an  opportunity  for  a  fine 
scene  in  his  best  manner!  And  he  found  that  he  did 
not  want  a  scene :  he  wanted  to  help  her. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"  she  said  impa- 
tiently. "What  am  I  to  do?" 

"You  can't  do  anything.  I'll  do  everything.  You 
say  she  knows  Temple.  Well,  I'll  find  him,  and  we'll 
go  to  her  lodgings  and  find  out  if  she's  there.  You 
don't  know  the  address  ?" 

"No,"  said  Betty.  "I  went  there,  but  it  was  at  night 
and  I  don't  even  know  the  street." 

"Now  look  here."  He  took  both  her  hands  and  held 
them  firmly.  "You  aren't  to  worry.  I'll  do  every- 
thing. Perhaps  she  has  been  taken  ill.  In  that  case, 
when  we  find  her,  she'll  need  you  to  look  after  her. 
You  must  rest.  I'm  certain  to  find  her.  You  must  eat 
something.  I'll  send  you  in  some  dinner.  And  then 
lie  down." 

"I  couldn't  sleep,"  said  Betty,  looking  at  him  with 
the  eyes  of  a  child  that  has  cried  its  heart  out. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't.  Lie  down,  and  make  your- 
self read.  I'll  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  Good-bye." 
There  was  something  further  that  wanted  to  get  itself 


176         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

said,  but  the  words  that  came  nearest  to  expressing  it 
were  "God  bless  you," — and  he  did  not  say  them. 

On  the  top  of  his  staircase  he  found  Temple  loung- 
ing. 

"Hullo — still  here?  I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  devil  of 
a  time  gone,  but  Miss  Desmond's — " 

"I  don't  want  to  shove  my  oar  in,"  said  Temple, 
"but  I  came  back  when  I'd  seen  Lady  St.  Craye  home. 
I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong  with  Miss  Desmond." 

"Come  in,"  said  Vernon.  "I'll  tell  you  the  whole 
thing." 

They  went  into  the  room  desolate  with  the  disorder 
of  half  empty  cups  and  scattered  plates  with  crumbs 
of  cake  on  them. 

"Miss  Desmond  told  me  about  her  meeting  you. 
Well,  she  gave  you  the  slip ;  she  went  back  and  got  that 
woman — Lottie  what's  her  name — and  took  her  to  live 
with  her." 

"Good  God!    She  didn't  know,  of  course?" 

"But  she  did  know — that's  the  knock-down  blow. 
She  knew,  and  she  wanted  to  save  her." 

Temple  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  say,  you  know,  though — that's  rather  fine,"  he 
said  presently. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Vernon  impatiently,  "it's  very  ro- 
mantic and  all  that.  Well,  the  woman  stayed  a  fort- 
night and  disappeared  to-day.  Miss  Desmond  is  break- 
ing her  heart  about  her." 

"So  she  took  her  up,  and — she's  rather  young  for 
rescue  work." 

"Rescue  work?  Bah!  She  talks  of  the  woman  as 
the  only  girl  friend  she's  ever  had.  And  the  woman's 
probably  gone  off  with  her  watch  and  chain  and  a  col- 
lection of  light  valuables.  Only  I  couldn't  tell  Miss 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         177 

Desmond  that.  So  I  promised  to  try  and  find  the 
woman.  She's  a  thorough  bad  lot.  I've  run  up  against 
her  once  or  twice  with  chaps  I  know." 

"She's  not  that  sort,"  said  Temple.  "I  know  her 
fairly  well." 

"What — Sir  Galahad?  Oh,  I  won't  ask  inconven- 
ient questions."  Vernon's  sneer  was  not  pretty. 

"She  used  to  live  with  de  Villermay,"  said  Temple 
steadily ;  "he  was  the  first — the  usual  coffee  maker  bus- 
iness, you  know,  though  God  knows  how  an  English 
girl  got  into  it.  When  he  went  home  to  be  married — 
It  was  rather  beastly.  The  father  came  up — offered 
her  a  present.  She  threw  it  at  him.  Then  Schauer- 
macher  wanted  her  to  live  with  him.  No.  She'd  go 
to  the  devil  her  own  way.  And  she's  gone." 

"Can't  something  be  done?"  said  Vernon. 
'     "I've  tried  all  I  know.    You  can  save  a  woman  who 
doesn't  know  where  she's  going.    Not  one  who  knows 
and  means  to  go.    Besides,  she's  been  at  it  six  months ; 
she's  past  reclaiming  now." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Vernon — and  his  sneer  had  gone 
and  he  looked  ten  years  younger — "I  wonder  whether 
anybody's  past  reclaiming?  Do  you  think  I  am?  Or 
you?" 

The  other  stared  at  him. 

"Well,"  Vernon's  face  aged  again  instantly,  "the 
thing  is :  we've  got  to  find  the  woman." 

"To  get  her  to  go  back  and  live  with  that  innocent 
girl?" 

"Lord — no!  To  find  her.  To  find  out  why  she 
bolted,  and  to  make  certain  that  she  won't  go  back  and 
live  with  that  innocent  girl.'  Do  you  know  her 
address?" 

But  she  was  not  to  be  found  at  her  address.    Stie  had 


178          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

come  back,  paid  her  bill,   and  taken  away  her  effects. 

It  was  at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  after  all,  that  they 
found  her,  one  of  a  party  of  four.  She  nodded  to 
them,  and  presently  left  her  party  and  came  to  spread 
her  black  and  white  flounces  at  their  table. 

"What's  the  best  news  with  you?"  she  asked  gaily. 
"It's  a  hundred  years  since  I  saw  you,  Bobby,  and  at 
least  a  million  since  I  saw  your  friend." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  Temple  said,  "was  the 
night  when  you  asked  me  to  take  care  of  a  girl." 

"So  it  was!    And  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  Temple;  "she  wouldn't  let  me.  She  went 
back  to  you." 

"So  you've  seen  her  again?  Oh,  I  see — you've  come 
to  ask  me  what  I  meant  by  daring  to  contaminate  an 
innocent  girl  by  my  society? — Well,  you  can  go  to 
Hell,  and  ask  there." 

She  rose,  knocking  over  a  chair. 

"Don't  go,"  said  Vernon.  "That's  not  what  we  want 
to  ask." 

"  'We'  too,"  she  turned  fiercely  on  him:  "as  if  you 
were  a  king  or  a  deputation." 

"One  and  one  are  two,"  said  Vernon;  "and  I  did 
very  much  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"And  two  are  company." 

She  had  turned  her  head  away. 

"You  aren't  going  to  be  cruel,"  Vernon  asked. 

"Well,  send  him  off  then.  I  won't  be  bullied  by  a 
crowd  of  you." 

Temple  took  off  his  hat  and  went. 

"I've  got  an  appointment.  I've  no  time  for  fool 
talk,"  she  said. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Vernon.     "First  I  want  to  thank 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          179 

you  for  the  care  you've  taken  of  Miss  Desmond,  and 
for  all  your  kindness  and  goodness  to  her." 

"Oh !"  was  all  Paula  could  say.  She  had  expected 
something  so  different.  "I  don't  see  what  business  it 
is  of  yours,  though,"  she  added  next  moment. 

"Only  that  she's  alone  here,  and  I'm  the  only  person 
she  knows  in  Paris.  And  I  know,  much  better  than 
she  does,  all  that  you've  done  for  her  sake." 

"I  did  it  for  my  own  sake.  It  was  no  end  of  a  lark," 
said  Paula  eagerly,  "that  little  dull  pious  life.  And  all 
the  time  I  used  to  laugh  inside  to  think  what  a  senti- 
mental fool  she  was." 

"Yes,"  said  Vernon  slowly,  "it  must  have  been  amus- 
ing for  you." 

"I  just  did  it  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  But  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer,  so  I  just  came  away.  I  was  bored 
to  death." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  been.  Just  playing 
at  cooking  and  housework,  reading  aloud  to  her  while 
she  drew — yes,  she  told  me  that.  And  the  flowers  and 
all  her  little  trumpery  odds  and  ends  about.  Awfully 
amusing  it  must  have  been." 

"Don't,"  said  Paula. 

"And  to  have  her  loving  you  and  trusting  you  as  she 
did — awfully  comic,  wasn't  it?  Calling  you  her  girl- 
friend—" 

,      "Shut  up,  will  you?" 

.'     "And  thinking  she  had  created  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  for  you.    Silly  sentimental  little  school-girl !" 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue  ?" 

;      "So  long,  Lottie,"  cried  the  girl  of  her  party;  "we're 
off  to  the  Bullier.    You've  got  better  fish  to  fry,  I  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Paula  with  sudden  effrontery;  "perhaps 
we'll  look  in  later." 


i8o         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

,'     The  others  laughed  and  went. 

"Now,"  she  said,  turning  furiously  on  Vernon,  "will 
you  go?  Or  shall  I?  I  don't  want  any  more  of  you." 

"Just  one  word  more,"  he  said  with  the  odd  change 
of  expression  that  made  him  look  young.  "Tell  me 
why  you  left  her.  She's  crying  her  eyes  out  for  you." 

"Why  I  left  her?    Because  I  was  sick  of — " 

"Don't.  Let  me  tell  you.  You  went  with  her  be- 
cause she  was  alone  and  friendless.  You  found  her 
rooms,  you  set  her  in  the  way  of  making  friends.  And 
when  you  saw  that  she  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  happy 
and  comfortable,  you  came  away,  because — " 

"Because?"  she  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Because  you  were  afraid." 

"Afraid?" 

"Afraid  of  handicapping  her.  You  knew  you  would 
meet  people  who  knew  you.  You  gave  it  all  up — all 
the  new  life,  the  new  chances — for  her  sake,  and  came 
away.  Do  I  understand?  Is  it  fool-talk?" 

Paula  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  her  chin  on 
her  hands. 

"You're  not  like  most  men,"  she  said ;  "you  make  me 
out  better  than  I  am.  That's  not  the  usual  mistake. 
Yes,  it  was  all  that,  partly.  And  I  should  have  liked 
to  stay — for  ever  and  ever — if  I  could.  But  suppose  I 
couldn't?  Suppose  I'd  begun  to  find  myself  wishing 
for — all  sorts  of  things,  longing  for  them.  Suppose  I'd 
stayed  till  I  began  to  think  of  things  that  I  wouldn't 
think  of  while  she  was  with  me.  That's  what  I  was 
afraid  of." 

"And  you  didn't  long  for  the  old  life  at  all?" 

She  laughed.  "Long  for  that  ?  But  I  might  have.  I 
might  have.  It  was  safer. — Well,  go  back  to  her  and 
tell  her  I've  gone  to  the  devil  and  it's  not  her  fault. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         181 

Tell  Her  I  wasn't  worth  saving.  But  I  did  try  to  save 
her.  If  you're  half  a  man  you  won't  undo  my  one  lit- 
tle bit  of  work." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean.  Let  the  girl 
alone." 

He  leaned  forward,  and  spoke  very  earnestly. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  won't  jaw.  But  this  about  you 
and  her — well,  it's  made  a  difference  to  me  that  I  can't 
explain.  And  I  wouldn't  own  that  to  anyone  but  her 
friend.  I  mean  to  be  a  friend  to  her  too,  a  good  friend. 
No  nonsense." 

"Swear  it  by  God  in  Heaven,"  she  said  fiercely. 

"I  do  swear  it,"  he  said,  "by  God  in  Heaven.  And 
I  can't  tell  her  you've  gone  to  the  devil.  You  must 
write  to  her.  And  you  can't  tell  her  that  either." 

"What's  the  good  of  writing?" 

"A  lie  or  two  isn't  much,  when  you've  done  all  this 
for  her.  Come  up  to  my  place.  You  can  write  to  her 
there." 

This  was  the  letter  that  Paula  wrote  in  Vernon's 
studio,  among  the  half-empty  cups  and  the  scattered 
plates  with  cake-crumbs  on  them. 

"My  Dear  Little  Betty : 

"I  must  leave  without  saying  good-bye,  and  I  shall 
never  see  you  again.  My  father  has  taken  me  back.  I 
wrote  to  him  and  he  came  and  found  me.  He  has  for- 
given me  everything,  only  I  have  had  to  promise  never 
to  speak  to  anyone  I  knew  in  Paris.  It  is  all  your 
doing,  dear.  God  bless  you.  You  have  saved  me.  I 
shall  pray  for  you  every  day  as  long  as  I  live. 

"Your  poor 
"PAULA." 


182         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Will  that  do?"  she  laughed  as  she  held  out  the 
letter. 

He  read  it.    And  he  did  not  laugh. 

"Yes— that'll  do,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  her  you've  gone 
to  England,  and  I'll  send  the  letter  to  London  to  be 
posted." 

"Then  that's  all  settled!" 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"God  Himself  can't  do  anything  for  me,"  she  said, 
biting  the  edge  of  her  veil. 

"Where  are  you  going  now  ?" 

"Back  to  the  d'Harcourt.    It's  early  yet." 

She  stood  defiantly  smiling  at  him. 

"What  were  you  doing  there — the  night  you  met 
her  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"What  does  one  do?" 

"What's  become  of  de  Villermay?"  he  asked. 

"Gone  home — got  married." 

"And  so  you  thought — " 

"Oh,  if  you  want  to  know  what  I  thought  you're 
welcome!  I  thought  I'd  damn  myself  as  deep  as  I 
could — to  pile  up  the  reckoning  for  him ;  and  I've  about 
done  it.  Good-bye.  I  must  be  getting  on." 

"I'll  come  a  bit  of  the  way  with  you,"  he  said. 
'     At  the  door  he  turned,  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it 
gently  and  reverently. 

"That's  very  sweet  of  you."  She  opened  astonished 
eyes  at  him.  "I  always  used  to  think  you  an  awful 
brute." 

"It  was  very  theatrical  of  me,"  he  told  himself  later. 
"But  it  summed  up  the  situation.  Sentimental  ass 
you're  growing!" 

Betty  got  her  letter  from  England  and  cried  over  it 
and  was  glad  over  it. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          183 

"I  have  done  one  thing,  anyway,"  she  told  herself, 
"one  really  truly  good  thing.  I've  saved  my  poor  dear 
Paula.  Oh,  how  right  I  was !  How  I  knew  her  1" 


. 


*5oofe  3,— Wyt  <®ttyt  Woman 


CHAPTER  XV, 

ON  MOUNT  PARNASSUS. 

At  Long  Barton  the  Reverend  Cecil  had  strayed 
into  Betty's  room,  now  no  longer  boudoir  and  bed- 
chamber, but  just  a  room,  swept,  dusted,  tidy,  with  the 
horrible  tidiness  of  a  room  that  is  not  used.  There 
were  squares  of  bright  yellow  on  the  dull  drab  of  the 
wall-paper,  marking  the  old  hanging  places  of  the  pho- 
tographs and  pictures  that  Betty  had  taken  to  Paris. 
He  opened  the  cupboard  door:  one  or  two  faded 
skirts,  a  flattened  garden  hat  and  a  pair  of  Betty's  old 
shoes.  He  shut  the  door  again  quickly,  as  though  he 
had  seen  Betty's  ghost. 

The  next  time  he  went  to  Sevenoaks  he  looked  in  at 
the  builders  and  decorators,  gave  an  order,  and  chose 
a  wall  paper  with  little  pink  roses  on  it.  When  Betty 
came  home  for  Christmas  she  should  not  find  her  room 
the  faded  desert  it  was  now.  He  ordered  pink  curtains 
to  match  the  rosebuds.  And  it  was  when  he  got  home 
that  he  found  the  letter  that  told  him  she  was  not  to 
come  at  Christmas. 

But  he  did  not  countermand  his  order.  If  not  at 
Christmas  then  at  Easter;  and  whenever  it  was  she 
should  find  her  room  a  bower.  Since  she  had  been 
away  he  had  felt  more  and  more  the  need  to  express 
his  affection.  He  had  expressed  it,  he  thought,  to  the 
uttermost,  by  letting  her  go  at  all.  And  now  he  wanted 

187 


188         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

to  express  it  in  detail,  by  pink  curtains,  satin-faced 
wall-paper  with  pink  roses.  The  paper  cost  two  shil- 
lings a  piece,  and  he  gloated  over  the  extravagance  and 
over  his  pretty,  poetic  choice.  Usually  the  wall-papers 
at  the  Rectory  had  been  chosen  by  Betty,  and  the  price 
limited  to  sixpence.  He  would  refrain  from  buying 
that  Fuller's  Church  History,  the  beautiful  brown  folio 
whose  perfect  boards  and  rich  yellow  paper  had  lived* 
in  his  dreams  for  the  last  three  weeks,  ever  since  he 
came  upon  it  in  the  rag  and  bone  shop  in  the  little  back 
street  in  Maidstone.  When  the  rosebud  paper  and  the 
pink  curtains  were  in  their  place,  the  shabby  carpet  was 
an  insult  to  their  bright  prettiness.  The  Reverend 
Cecil  bought  an  Oriental  carpet — of  the  bright-pat- 
terned jute  variety — and  was  relieved  to  find  that  it 
only  cost  a  pound. 

The  leaves  were  falling  in  brown  dry  showers  in 
the  Rectory  garden,  the  chrysanthemums  were  nearly 
over,  the  dahlias  blackened  and  blighted  by  the  first 
frosts.  A  few  pale  blooms  still  clung  to  the  gaunt  hol- 
lyhock stems;  here  and  there  camomile  flowers,  "medi- 
cine daisies"  Betty  used  to  call  them  when  she  was  lit- 
tle, their  whiteness  tarnished,  showed  among  bent  dry 
stalks  of  flowers  dead  and  forgotten.  Round  Betty's 
window  the  monthly  rose  bloomed  pale  and  pink  amid 
disheartened  foliage.  The  damp  began  to  shew  on  the 
North  walls  of  the  rooms.  A  fire  in  the  study  now 
daily,  for  the  sake  of  the  books:  one  in  the  drawing- 
room,  weekly,  for  the  sake  of  the  piano  and  the  furni- 
ture. And  for  Betty,  in  far-away  Paris,  a  fire  of  crack- 
ling twigs  and  long  logs  in  the  rusty  fire-basket,  and 
blue  and  yellow  flames  leaping  to  lick  the  royal  arms  of 
France  on  the  wrought-iron  fire-back. 

The  rooms  were  lonely  to  Betty  now  that  Paula  was 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         189 

gone.  She  missed  her  inexpressibly.  But  the  loneli- 
ness was  lighted  by  a  glow  of  pride,  of  triumph,  of 
achievement.  Her  deception  of  her  step-father  was 
justified.  She  had  been  the  means  of  saving  Paula. 
But  for  her  Paula  would  not  have  returned,  like  the 
Prodigal  son,  to  the  father's  house.  Betty  pictured 
her  there,  subdued,  saddened,  but  inexpressibly  happy, 
warming  her  cramped  heart  in  the  sun  of  forgiveness 
and  love. 

"Thank  God,  I  have  done  some  good  in  the  world," 
said  Betty. 

In  the  brief  interview  which  Vernon  took  to  tell  her 
that  Paula  had  gone  to  England  with  her  father,  Betty 
noticed  no  change  in  him.  She  had  no  thought  for 
him  then.  And  in  the  next  weeks,  when  she  had 
thoughts  for  him,  she  did  not  see  him. 

She  could  not  but  be  glad  that  he  was  in  Paris.  In 
the  midst  of  her  new  experiences  he  seemed  to  her  like 
an  old  friend.  Yet  his  being  there  put  a  different  com- 
plexion on  her  act  of  mutiny.  When  she  decided  to 
deceive  her  step-father,  and  to  stay  on  in  Paris  alone 
Paula  had  been  to  be  saved,  and  he  had  been,  to  her 
thought,  in  Vienna,  not  to  be  met.  Now  Paula  was 
gone — and  he  was  here.  In  the  night  when  Betty  lay 
wakeful  and  heard  the  hours  chimed  by  a  convent  bell 
whose  voice  was  toneless  and  gray  as  an  autumn  sky 
it  seemed  to  her  that  all  was  wrong,  that  she  had  com- 
mitted a  fault  that  was  almost  a  crime,  that  there  was 
nothing  now  to  be  done  but  to  confess;  to  go  home  and 
to  expiate,  as  the  Prodigal  Son  doubtless  did  among 
the  thorny  roses  of  forgiveness,  those  days  in  the  far 
country.  But  always  with  the  morning  light  came  the 
remembrance  that  it  was  not  her  father's  house  to 
which  she  must  go  to  make  submission.  It  was  her 


190         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

step-father's.  And  after  all,  it  was  her  own  life — she 
had  to  live  it.  Once  that  confession  and  submission 
made  she  saw  herself  enslaved  beyond  hope  of  freedom. 
Meanwhile  here  was  the  glad,  gay  life  of  independence, 
new  experiences,  new  sensations.  And  her  step- 
father was  doubtless  glad  to  be  rid  of  her. 

"It  isn't  as  though  anyone  wanted  me  at  home,"  she 
said ;  "and  everything  here  is  so  new  and  good,  and  I 
have  quite  a  few  friends  already — and  I  shall  have 
more.  This  is  what  they  call  seeing  life." 

Life  as  she  saw  it  was  good  to  see.  The 
darker,  grimmer  side  of  the  student  life  was  wholly 
hidden  from  Betty.  She  saw  only  a  colony  of  young 
artists  of  all  nations — but  most  of  England  and  Amer- 
ica— all  good  friends  and  comrades,  working  and  play- 
ing with  an  equal  enthusiasm.  She  saw  girls  treated 
as  equals  and  friends  by  the  men  students.  If  money 
were  short  it  was  borrowed  from  the  first  friend  one 
met,  and  quite  usually  repaid  when  the  home  allow- 
ance arrived.  A  young  man  would  borrow  from  a 
young  woman  or  a  young  woman  from  a  young  man 
as  freely  as  school-boys  from  each  other.  Most  girls 
had  a  special  friend  among  the  boys.  Betty  thought  at 
first  that  these  must  be  betrothed  lovers.  Miss  Voscoe, 
the  American,  stared  when  she  put  the  question  about 
a  pair  who  had  just  left  the  restaurant  together  with 
the  announcement  that  they  were  off  to  the  Musee 
Cluny  for  the  afternoon. 

"Engaged?"  Not  that  I  know  of.  Why  should 
they  be?"  she  said  in  a  tone  that  convicted  Betty  of  a 
social  lapse  in  the  putting  of  the  question.  Yet  she 
defended  herself. 

"Well,  you  know,  in  England  people  don't  gener- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         191 

ally  go  about  together  like  that  unless  they're  engaged, 
or  relations." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Voscoe,  filling  her  glass  from  the 
little  bottle  of  weak  white  wine  that  costs  threepence 
at  Garnier's,  "I've  heard  that  is  so  in  your  country. 
Your  girls  always  marry  the  wrong  man,  don't  they, 
because  he's  the  first  and  only  one  they've  ever  had  the 
privilege  of  conversing  with?" 

"Not  quite  always,  I  hope,"  said  Betty  good  hu- 
mouredly. 

"Now  in  our  country,"  Miss  Voscoe  went  on,  "girls 
look  around  so  as  they  can  tell  there's  more  different 
sorts  of  boys  than  there  are  of  squashes.  Then  when 
they  get  married  to  a  husband  it's  because  they  like 
him,  or  because  they  like  his  dollars,  or  for  some  reason 
that  isn't  just  that  he's  the  only  one  they've  ever  said 
five  words  on  end  to." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  Betty  owned ;  "but  my 
aunt  says  men  never  want  to  be  friends  with  girls — 
they  always  want — " 

"To  flirt  ?  May  be  they  do,  though  I  don't  think  so. 
Our  men  don't,  any  way.  But  if  the  girl  doesn't  want 
to  flirt  things  won't  get  very  tangled  up." 

"But  suppose  a  man  got  really  fond  of  you,  then  he 
might  think  you  liked  him  too,  if  you  were  always 
about  with  him — " 

"Do  him  good  to  have  his  eyes  opened  thenf  Be- 
sides, who's  always  about  with  anyone?  You  have  a 
special  friend  for  a  bit,  and  just  walk  around  and  see 
the  sights, — and  then  change  partners  and  have  a  turn 
with  somebody  else.  It's  just  like  at  a  dance.  Nobody 
thinks  you're  in  love  because  you  dance  three  or  four 
times  running  with  one  boy." 

Betty  reflected  as  she  ate  her  noix  de  veau.    It  was 


192         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

certainly  true  that  she  had  seen  changes  of  partners. 
Milly  St.  Leger,  the  belle  of  the  students'  quarter, 
changed  her  partners  every  week. 

"You  see,"  the  American  went  on,  "We're  not  the 
stay-at-home-and-mind-Auntie  kind  that  come  here  to 
study.  What  we  want  is  to  learn  to  paint  and  to  have 
a  good  time  in  between.  Don't-  you  make  any  mistake, 
Miss  Desmond.  This  time  in  Paris  is  the  time  of  our 
lives  to  most  of  us.  It's  what  we'll  have  to  look  back 
at  and  talk  about.  And  suppose  every  time  there  was 
any  fun  going  we  had  to  send  around  to  the  nearest 
store  for  a  chaperon  how  much  fun  would  there  be 
left  by  the  time  she  toddled  in?  No — the  folks  at 
home  who  trust  us  to  work  trust  us  to  play.  And  we 
have  our  little  heads  screwed  on  the  right  way." 

Betty  remembered  that  she  had  been  trusted  neither 
for  play  nor  work.  Yet,  from  the  home  standpoint  she 
had  been  trustworthy,  more  trustworthy  than  most. 
She  had  not  asked  Vernon,  her  only  friend,  to  come 
and  see  her,  and  when  he  had  said,  "When  shall  I  see 
you  again  ?"  she  had  answered,  "I  don't  know.  Thank 
you  very  much.  Good-bye." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  were  raised,"  Miss  Voscoe 
went  on,  "but  I  guess  it  was  in  the  pretty  sheltered 
home  life.  Now  I'd  bet  you  fell  in  love  with  the  first 
man  that  said  three  polite  words  to  you !" 

"I'm  not  twenty  yet,"  said  Betty,  with  ears  and  face 
of  scarlet. 

"Oh,  you  mean  I'm  to  think  nobody's  had  time  to 
say  those  three  polite  words  yet?  You  come  right 
along  to  my  studio,  I've  got  a  tea  on,  and  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  introduce  my  friends  to  you  by  threes,  so  as  you 
get  nine  polite  words  at  once.  You  can't  fall  in  love 
with  three  boys  a  minute,  can  you?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         193 

Betty  went  home  and  put  on  her  prettiest  frock. 
After  all,  one  was  risking  a  good  deal  for  this  Paris 
life,  and  one  might  as  well  get  as  much  out  of  it  as  one 
could.  And  one  always  had  a  better  time  of  it  when 
one  was  decently  dressed.  Her  gown  was  of  dead-leaf 
velvet,  with  green  undersleeves  and  touches  of  dull  red 
and  green  embroidery  at  elbows  and  collar. 

Miss  Voscoe's  studio  was  at  the  top  of  a  hundred 
and  seventeen  polished  wooden  steps,  and  as  Betty 
neared  the  top  flight  the  sound  of  talking  and  laughter 
came  down  to  her,  mixed  with  the  rattle  of  china  and 
the  subdued  tinkle  of  a  mandolin.  She  opened  the  door 
— the  room  seemed  full  of  people,  but  she  only  saw  two. 
One  was  Vernon  and  the  other  was  Temple. 

Betty  furiously  resented  the  blush  that  hotly  covered 
neck,  ears  and  face. 

"Here  you  are !"  cried  Miss  Voscoe.  She  was  kind : 
she  gave  but  one  fleet  glance  at  the  blush  and,  linking 
her  arm  in  Betty's,  led  her  round  the  room.  Betty 
heard  her  name  and  other  names.  People  were  being 
introduced  to  her.  She  heard: 

"Pleased  to  know  you, — " 

"Pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance, — " 

"Delighted  to  meet  you — " 

and  realised  that  her  circle  of  American  acquaintances 
was  widening.  When  Miss  Voscoe  paused  with  her 
before  the  group  of  which  Temple  and  Vernon  formed 
part  Betty  felt  as  though  her  face  had  swelled  to  that 
degree  that  her  eyes  must,  with  the  next  red  wave, 
start  out  of  her  head.  The  two  hands,  held  out  in  suc- 
cessive greeting,  gave  Miss  Voscoe  the  key  to  Betty's 
flushed  entrance. 

She  drew  her  quickly  away,  and  led  her  up  to  a 
glaring  poster  where  a  young  woman  in  a  big  red  hat 


194         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

sat  at  a  cafe  table,  and  under  cover  of  Betty's  purely 
automatic  recognition  of  the  composition's  talent,  mur- 
mured : 

"Which  of  them  was  it?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  Betty  mechanically  offered  the 
deferent  defence. 

"Which  was  it  that  said  the  three  polite  words — be- 
fore you'd  ever  met  anyone  else?" 

"Ah !"  said  Betty,  "you're  so  clever — " 

"Too  clever  to  live,  yes,"  said  Miss  Voscoe;  "but  be- 
fore I  die — which  was  it  ?" 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Betty,  her  face  slowly 
drawing  back  into  itself  its  natural  colouring,  "that 
you're  so  clever  you  don't  want  to  be  told  things.  If 
you're  sure  it's  one  of  them,  you  ought  to  know  which." 

"Well,"  remarked  Miss  Voscoe,  "I  guess  Mr.  Tem- 
ple." 

"Didn't  I  say  you  were  clever?"  said  Betty. 

"Then  it's  the  other  one." 

Before  the  studio  tea  was  over,  Vernon  and  Temple 
both  had  conveyed  to  Betty  the  information  that  it 
was  the  hope  of  meeting  her  that  had  drawn  them  to 
Miss  Voscoe's  studio  that  afternoon. 

"Because,  after  all,"  said  Vernon,  "we  'do  know 
each  other  better  than  either  of  us  knows  anyone  else 
in  Paris.  And,  if  you'd  let  me,  I  could  put  you  to  a 
thing  or  two  in  the  matter  of  your  work.  After  all, 
I've  been  through  the  mill." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Betty,  "but  I'm  all 
alone  now  Paula's  gone,  and — " 

"We'll  respect  the  conventions,"  said  Vernon  gaily, 
"but  the  conventions  of  the  Quartier  Latin  aren't  the 
conventions  of  Clapham." 

"No,  I  know,"  said  she,  "but  there's  a  point  of  hon- 


.   THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         195 

our."  She  paused.  "There  are  reasons,"  she  added, 
"why  I  ought  to  be  more  conventional  than  Clapham. 
I  should  like  to  tell  you,  some  time,  only —  But  I 
haven't  got  anyone  to  tell  anything  to.  I  wonder — " 

"What?    What  do  you  wonder?" 
;      Betty  spoke  with  effort. 

"I  know  it  sounds  insane,  but,  you  know  my  step- 
father thought  you — you  wanted  to  marry  me.  You 
didn't  ever,  did  you?" 

Vernon  was  silent:  none  of  his  habitual  defences 
served  him  in  this  hour. 

"You  see,"  Betty  went  on,  "all  that  sort  of  thing  is 
such  nonsense.  If  I  knew  you  cared  about  someone 
else  everything  would  be  so  simple." 

"Eliminate  love,"  said  Vernon,  "and  the  world  is  a 
simple  example  in  vulgar  fractions." 

"I  want  it  to  be  simple  addition,"  said  Betty*  "Lady 
St.  Craye  is  very  beautiful." 

"Yes,"  said  Vernon. 

"Is  she  in  love  with  you?" 

"Ask  her,"  said  Vernon,  feeling  like  a  schoolboy  in 
an  examination. 

"If  she  were — and  you  cared  for  her — then  you  and 
I  could  be  friends:  I  should  like  to  be  real  friends 
with  you." 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  said  he  when  he  had  paused  a 
moment.  He  made  the  proposal  with  every  possible 
reservation. 

"Really?"  she  said.    "I'm  so  glad." 

If  there  was  a  pang,  Betty  pretended  to  herself  that 
there  was  none.  If  Vernon's  conscience  fluttered  him 
he  was  able  to  soothe  it ;  it  was  an  art  that  he  had 
studied  for  years. 

"Say,  you  two!" 


i96         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

The  voice  of  Miss  Voscoe  fell  like  a  pebble  into  the 
pool  of  silence  that  was  slowly  widening  between 
them. 

"Say — we're  going  to  start  a  sketch-club  for  really 
reliable  girls.  We  can  have  it  here,  and  it'll  only  be 
one  franc  an  hour  for  the  model,  and  say  six  sous  each 
for  tea.  Two  afternoons  a  week.  Three,  five,  nine  of 
us — you'll  join,  Miss  Desmond?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes!"  said  Betty,  conscientiously  delight- 
ed with  the  idea  of  more  work. 

"That  makes — nine  six  sous  and  two  hours  model — • 
how  much  is  that,  Mr.  Temple? — I  see  it  written  on 
your  speaking  brow  that  you  took  the  mathematical 
wranglership  at  Oxford  College." 

"Four  francs  seventy,"  said  Temple  through  the 
shout  of  laughter. 

"Have  I  said  something  comme  il  ne  faut  pas?"  said 
Miss  Voscoe. 

"You  couldn't,"  said  Vernon:  "every  word  leaves 
your  lips  without  a  stain  upon  its  character." 

"Won't  you  let  us  join?"  asked  an  Irish  student. 
"You'll  be  lost  entirely  without  a  Lord  of  Creation  to 
sharpen  your  pencils." 

"We  mean  to  work"  said  Miss  Voscoe;  "if  you 
want  to  work  take  a  box  of  matches  and  a  couple  of 
sticks  of  brimstone  and  make  a  little  sketch  class  of 
your  own." 

"I  don't  see  what  you  want  with  models,"  said  a 
very  young  and  shy  boy  student.  "Couldn't  you  pose 
for  each  other,  and — " 

A  murmur  of  dissent  from  the  others  drove  him  back 
into  shy  silence. 

"No  amateur  models  in  this  Academy,"  said  Miss 
Voscoe.  "Oh,  we'll  make  the  time-honoured  institu- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         197 

tions  sit  up  with  the  work  we'll  do.  Let's  all  pledge 
ourselves  to  send  in  to  the  Salon — or  anyway  to  the 
Independants !  What  we're  suffering  from  in  this 
quarter's  git-up-and-git.  Why  should  we  be  contented 
to  be  nobody?'* 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Vernon,  "Miss  Voscoe  is 
everybody — almost !" 

"I'm  the  nobody  who  can't  get  a  word  in  edgeways 
anyhow,"  she  said.  "What  I've  been  trying  to  say 
ever  since  I  was  born — pretty  near — is  that  what  this 
class  wants  is  a  competent  Professor,  some  bully  top- 
of-the-tree  artist,  to  come  and  pull  our  work  all  to 
pieces  and  wipe  his  boots  on  the  bits.  Mr.  Vernon, 
don't  you  know  any  one  who's  pining  to  give  us  free 
crits?" 

"Temple  is,"  said  Vernonk  "There's  no  mistaking 
that  longing  glance  of  his." 

"As  a  competent  professor  I  make  you  my  bow  of 
gratitude,"  said  Temple,  "but  I  should  never  have  the 
courage  to  criticise  the  work  of  nine  fair  ladies." 

"You  needn't  criticise  them  all  at  once,"  said  a  large 
girl  from  Minneapolis,  "nor  yet  all  in  the  gaudy  eye 
of  heaven.  We'll  screen  off  a  corner  for  our  Professor 
— sort  of  confessional  business.  You  sit  there  and 
we'll  go  to  you  one  by  one  with  our  sins  in  our  hand." 

"That  would  scare  him  some  I  surmise,"  said  Miss 
Voscoe. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Temple,  a  little  nettled,  he  hardly 
knew  why. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  brave,"  said  the  Min- 
neapolis girl. 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  want  you  to  know,"  said  Miss 
Voscoe;  "perhaps  that's  his  life's  dark  secret." 

"People  often    pretend    to    a    courage     that    they 


198         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

haven't,"  said  Vernon.  "  A  consistent  pose  of  cowar- 
dice, that  would  be  novel  and — I  see  the  idea  develop- 
ing— more  than  useful." 

"Is  that  your  pose?"  asked  Temple,  still  rather 
tartly,  "because  if  it  is,  I  beg  to  offer  you,  in  the  name 
of  these  ladies,  the  chair  of  Professor-behind-the- 
screen." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  nine  Muses,"  Vernon  laughed 
back,  "as  long  as  they  are  nine.  It's  the  light  that  lies 
in  woman's  eyes  that  I've  always  had  such  a  nervous 
dread  of." 

"It  does  make  you  blink,  bless  it,"  said  the  Irish 
student,  "but  not  from  nine  pairs  at  once,  as  you  say. 
It's  the  light  from  one  pair  that  turns  your  head." 

"Mr.  Vernon  isn't  weak  in  the  head,"  said  the  shy 
boy  suddenly. 

"No,"  said  Vernon,  "it's  the  heart  that's  weak  with 
me.  I  have  to  be  very  careful  of  it." 

"Well,  but  will  you  ?"  said  a  downright  girl. 

"Will  I  what?  I'm  sorry,  but  I've  lost  my  cue,  I 
think.  Where  were  we — at  losing  hearts,  wasn't  it?" 

"No,"  said  the  downright  girl,  "I  didn't  mean  that. 
I  mean  will  you  come  and  criticise  our  drawings  ?" 

"Fiddle,"  said  Miss  Voscoe  luminously.  "Mr.  Ver- 
non's  too  big  for  that." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Vernon,  "if  you  don't  think  I 
should  be  competent!" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  would?" 

"Who  wouldn't  jump  at  the  chance  of  playing 
Apollo  to  the  fairest  set  of  muses  in  the  Quartier?" 
said  Temple;  "but  after  all,  I  had  the  refusal  of  the 
situation — I  won't  renounce — " 

"Bobby,  you  unman  me,"  interrupted  Vernon,  put- 
tingdownhiscup,  "you  shall  not  renounce  the  altruistic 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         199 

pleasure  which  you  promise  to  yourself  in  yielding  this 
professorship  to  me.  I  accept  it." 

"I'm  hanged  if  you  do !"  said  Temple.  "You  pro- 
posed me  yourself,  and  I'm  elected — aren't  I,  Miss 
Voscoe?" 

"That's  so,"  said  she;  "but  Mr.  Vernon's  president 
too." 

"I've  long  been  struggling  with  the  conviction  that 
Temple  and  I  were  as  brothers.  Now  I  yield — Tem- 
ple, to  my  arms !" 

They  embraced,  elegantly,  enthusiastically,  almost 
as  Frenchmen  use;  and  the  room  applauded  the  faith- 
ful burlesque. 

"What's  come  to  me  that  I  should  play  the  goat  like 
this?"  Vernon  asked  himself,  as  he  raised  his  head 
from  Temple's  broad  shoulder.  Then  he  met  Betty's 
laughing  eyes,  and  no  longer  regretted  his  assumption 
of  that  difficult  role. 

"It's  settled  then.  Tuesdays  and  Fridays,  four  to 
six,"  he  said.  "At  last  I  am  to  be— 

"The  light  of  the  harem,"  said  Miss  Voscoe. 

"Can  there  be  two  lights?"  asked  Temple  anxiously. 
"If  not,  consider  the  fraternal  embrace  withdrawn." 

"No,  you're  the  light,  of  course,"  said  Betty.  "Mr. 
Vernon's  the  Ancient  Light.  He's  older  than  you  are, 
isn't  he?" 

The  roar  of  appreciation  of  her  little  joke  surprised 
Betty,  and,  a  little,  pleased  her — till  Miss  Voscoe  whis- 
pered under  cover  of  it : 

"Ancient  light?  Then  he  was  the  three-polite-word 
man?" 

Betty  explained  her  little  jest. 

"All  the  same,"  said  the  other,  "it  wasn't  any   old 


200         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

blank  walls  you  were  thinking  about.  I  believe  he  is 
the  one." 

"It's  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  believe  anything," 
said  Betty;  and  the  talk  broke  up  into  duets.  She 
•found  that  Temple  was  speaking  to  her. 

"I  came  here  to-day  because  I  wanted  to  meet  you, 
Miss  Desmond,"  he  was  saying.  "I  hope  you  don't 
think  it's  cheek  of  me  to  say  it,  but  there's  something 
about  you  that  reminds  me  of  the  country  at  home." 

"That's  a  very  pretty  speech,"  said  Betty.  He  re- 
minded her  of  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  but  she  did  not 
say  so. 

"You  remind  me  of  a  garden,"  he  went  on,  "but  I 
don't  like  to  see  a  garden  without  a  hedge  round  it." 

"You  think  I  ought  to  have  a  chaperon,"  said  Betty 
bravely,  "but  chaperons  aren't  needed  in  this  quarter." 

"I  wish  I  were  your  brother,"  said  Temple. 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  not,"  said  Betty.  She  wanted 
no  chaperonage,  even  fraternal.  But  the  words  made 
him  shrink,  and  then  sent  a  soft  warmth  through  him. 
On  the  whole  he  was  not  sorry  that  he  was  not  her 
brother. 

At  parting  Vernon,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  said : 

"And  when  may  I  see  you  again  ?" 

"On  Tuesday,  when  the  class  meets." 

"But  I  didn't  mean  when  shall  I  see  the  class.  When 
shall  I  see  Miss  Desmond?" 

"Oh,  whenever  you  like,"  Betty  answered  gaily; 
"whenever  Lady  St.  Craye  can  spare  you." 

He  let  Her  say  it 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"LOVE  AND  TUPPER." 

"Whenever  Vernon  liked"  proved  to  be  the  very 
next  day.  He  was  waiting  outside  the  door  of  the 
atelier  when  Betty,  in  charcoal-smeared  pinafore,  left 
the  afternoon  class. 

"Won't  you  dine  with  me  somewhere  to-night?" 
said  he. 

"I  am  going  to  Garnier's,"  she  said.  Not  even  for 
him,  friend  of  hers  and  affianced  of  another  as  he  might 
be,  would  she  yet  break  the  rule  of  a  life  Paula  had 
instituted. 

"Fallen  as  I  am,"  he  answered  gaily,  "I  am  not  yet 
so  low  as  to  be  incapable  of  dining  at  Garnier's." 

So  when  Betty  passed  through  the  outer  room  of  the 
restaurant  and  along  the  narrow  little  passage  where 
eyes  and  nose  attest  strongly  the  neighborhood  of  the 
kitchen,  she  was  attended  by  a  figure  that  aroused  the 
spontaneous  envy  of  all  her  acquaintances.  In  the 
inner  room  where  they  dined  it  was  remarked  that  such 
a  figure  would  be  more  at  home  at  Durand's  or  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  than  at  Garnier's.  That  night  the  first 
breath  of  criticism  assailed  Betty.  To  afficher  oneself 
with  a  fellow-student — a  "type,"  Polish  or  otherwise — 
that  was  all  very  well,  but  with  an  obvious  Boulevar- 
dier,  a  creature  from  the  other  side,  this  dashed  itself 
against  the  conventions  of  the  Artistic  Quartier.  And 

201 


202         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

conventions — even  of  such  quarters — are  iron-strong. 

"Fiddle-de-dee,"  said  Miss  Voscoe  to  her  compan- 
ions' shocked  comments,  "they  were  raised  in  the  same 
village,  or  something.  He  used  to  give  her  peanuts 
when  he  was  in  short  jackets,  and  she  used  to  halve 
her  candies  with  him.  Friend  of  childhood's  hour, 
that's  all.  And  besides  he's  one  of  the  presidents  of 
pur  Sketch  Club." 

But  all  Garnier's  marked  that  whereas  the  habitues 
contented  themselves  with  an  omelette  aux  champig- 
nons, saute  potatoes  and  a  Petit  Suisse,  or  the  like 
modest  menu,  Betty's  new  friend  ordered  for  himself, 
and  for  her,  "a  real  regular  dinner,"  beginning  with 
hors  d'oeuvre  and  ending  with  "mendiants."  "Men- 
diants"  are  raisins  and  nuts,  the  nearest  to  dessert  thai 
at  this  season  you  could  get  at  Garnier's.  Also  he 
passed  over  with  smiling  disrelish  the  little  carafons  of 
weak  wine  for  which  one  pays  five  sous  if  the  wine  be 
red,  and  six  if  it  be  white.  He  went  out  and  inter- 
viewed Madame  at  her  little  desk  among  the  flowers 
and  nuts  and  special  sweet  dishes,  and  it  was  a  bottle 
of  real  wine  with  a  real  cork  to  be  drawn  that  adorned 
the  table  between  him  and  Betty.  To  her  the  whole 
thing  was  of  the  nature  of  a  festival.  She  enjoyed  the 
little  sensation  created  by  her  companion;  and  the 
knowledge  which  she  thought  she  had  of  his  relations 
to  Lady  St.  Craye  absolved  her  from  any  fear  that  in 
dining  with  him  tete-a-tete  she  was  doing  anything 
"not  quite  nice."  To  her  the  thought  of  his  engage- 
ment was  as  good  or  as  bad  as  a  chaperon.  For 
Betty's  innocence  was  deeply  laid,  and  had  survived  the 
shock  of  all  the  waves  that  had  beaten  against  it  since 
her  coming  to  Paris.  It  was  more  than  innocence,  it 
was  a  very  honest,  straightforward  childish  naivet6. 


203 

"It's  almost  the  same  as  if  he  was  married,"  she  said: 
"there  can't  be  any  harm  in  having  dinner  with  a  man 
who's  married — or  almost  married." 

So  she  enjoyed  herself.  Vernon  exerted  himself  to 
amuse  her.  But  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  was 
not  so  happy  as  he  had  expected  to  be.  It  was  good 
that  Betty  had  permitted  him  to  dine  with  her  alone, 
but  it  was  flat.  After  dinner  he  took  her  to  the  Odeon, 
and  she  said  good-night  to  him  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  she  had  known  since  Paula  left  her. 

In  these  rooms  now  sometimes  it  was  hard  to 
keep  one's  eyes  shut.  And  to  keep  her  eyes  shut 
was  now  Betty's  aim  in  life,  even  more  than  the 
art  for  which  she  pretended  to  herself  that  she  lived. 
For  now  that  Paula  had  gone  the  deception  of  her 
father  would  have  seemed  less  justifiable,  had  she  ever 
allowed  herself  to  face  the  thought  of  it  for  more  than 
a  moment ;  but  she  used  to  fly  the  thought  and  go  round 
to  one  of  the  girls'  rooms  to  talk  about  Art  with  a  big 
A,  and  forget  how  little  she  liked  or  admired  Betty 
Desmond. 

She  was  now  one  of  a  circle  of  English,  American 
and  German  students.  The  Sketch  Club  had  brought 
her  eight  new  friends,  and  they  went  about  in  parties 
by  twos  and  threes,  or  even  sevens  and  eights,  and 
Betty  went  with  them,  enjoying  the  fun  of  it  all,  which 
she  liked,  and  missing  all  that  she  would  not  have 
liked  if  she  had  seen  it.  But  Vernon  was  the  only  man 
with  whom  she  dined  tete-a-tete  or  went  to  the  theatre 
alone. 

To  him  the  winter  passed  in  a  maze  of  doubt  and 
self -contempt.  He  could  not  take  what  the  gods  held 
out:  could  not  draw  from  his  constant  companionship 
of  Betty  the  pleasure  which  his  artistic  principles,  his 


204         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

trained  instincts  taught  him  to  expect.  He  had  now 
all  the  tete-a-tetes  he  cared  to  ask  for,  and  he  hated 
that  it  should  be  so.  He  almost  wanted  her  to  be  in  a 
position  where  such  things  should  be  impossible  to  her. 
He  wanted  her  to  be  guarded,  watched,  sheltered.  And 
he  had  never  wanted  that  for  any  woman  in  his  life  be- 
fore. 

"I  shall  be  wishing  her  in  a  convent  next,"  he  said, 
"with  high  walls  with  spikes  on  the  top.  Then  I 
should  walk  round  and  round  the  outside  of  the  walls 
and  wish  her  out.  But  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  at 
her.  And  nothing  else  would  either." 

Lady  St.  Craye  was  more  charming  than  ever. 
Vernon  knew  it  and  sometimes  he  deliberately  tried  to 
let  her  charm  him.  But  though  he  perceived  her  charm 
he  could  not  feel  it.  Always  before  he  had  felt  what 
he  chose  to  feel.  Or  perhaps — he  hated  the  thought 
and  would  not  look  at  it — perhaps  all  his  love  affairs 
had  been  just  pictures,  perhaps  he  had  never  felt  any- 
thing but  an  artistic  pleasure  in  their  grouping  and 
lighting.  Perhaps  now  he  was  really  feeling  natural 
human  emotion,  didn't  they  call  it?  But  that 
was  just  it  He  wasn't  What  he  felt  was  resent- 
ment, dissatisfaction,  a  growing  inability  to  control 
events  or  to  prearrange  his  sensations.  He  felt  that 
he  himself  was  controlled.  He  felt  like  a  wild  creature 
caught  in  a  trap.  The  trap  was  not  gilded,  and  he  was 
very  uncomfortable  in  it.  Even  the  affairs  of  others 
almost  ceased  to  amuse  him.  He  could  hardly  call 
up  a  cynical  smile  at  Lady  St.  Grave's  evident  misap- 
prehension of  those  conscientious  efforts  of  his  to  be 
charmed  by  her.  He  was  only  moved  to  a  very  faint 
amusement  when  one  day  Bobbie  Temple,  smoking  in 
the  studio,  broke  a  long  silence  abruptly  to  say: 


205 

"Look  here.  Someone  was  saying  the  other  day  that 
a  man  can  be  in  love  with  two  women  at  a  time.  Do 
you  think  it's  true?" 

"Two?     Yes.     Or  twenty." 

"Then  it's  not  love,"  said  Temple  wisely. 

"They  call  it  love,"  said  Vernon.  "I  don't  know 
what  they  mean  by  it.  What  do  you  mean?" 

"By  love?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Temple  slowly.  "I 
suppose  it's  wanting  to  be  with  a  person,  and  thinking 
about  nothing  else.  And  thinking  they're  the  most 
beautiful  and  all  that.  And  going  over  everything  that 
they've  ever  said  to  you,  and  wanting — " 

"Wanting?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  if  it's  really  love  you  want  to  marry 
them." 

"You  can't  marry  them,  you  know,"  said  Vernon; 
"at  least  not  simultaneously.  That's  just  it.  Well?" 

"Well  that's  all.    If  that's  not  love,  what  is?" 

"I'm  hanged  if  7  know,"  said  Vernon. 

"I  thought  you  knew  all  about  those  sort  of  things." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Vernon  to  himself.    Aloud  he  said : 

"If  you  want  a  philosophic  definition:  it's  passion 
transfigured  by  tenderness — at  least  I've  often  said 
so." 

"But  can  you  feel  that  for  two  people  at  once?" 

"Or,"  said  Vernon,  getting  interested  in  his  words, 
"it's  tenderness  intoxicated  by  passion,  and  not  know- 
ing that  it's  drunk — " 

"But  can  you  feel  that  for  two — " 

"Oh,  bother,"  said  Vernon,  "every  sort  of  fool-fancy 
calls  itself  love.  There's  the  pleasure  of  pursuit— 
there's  vanity,  there's  the  satisfaction  of  your  own 


2o6         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

amour-propre,  there's  desire,  there's  intellectual  attrac- 
tion, there's  the  love  of  beauty,  there's  the  artist's  joy 
in  doing  what  you  know  you  can  do  well,  and  getting 
a  pretty  woman  for  sole  audience.  You  might  feel  one 
or  two  or  twenty  of  these  things  for  one  woman,  and 
one  or  two  or  twenty  different  ones  for  another.  But 
if  you  mean  do  you  love  two  women  in  the  same  way, 
I  say  no.  Thank  Heaven  it's  new  every  time." 

"It  mayn't  be  the  same  way,"  said  Temple,  "but  it's 
the  same  thing  to  you — if  you  feel  you  can't  bear  to 
give  either  of  them  up." 

"Well,  then,  you  can  marry  one  and  keep  on  with 
the  other.  Or  be  'friends'  with  both  and  marry  neither. 
Or  cut  the  whole  show  and  go  to  the  Colonies." 

"Then  you  have  to  choose  between  being  unhappy  or 
being  a  blackguard." 

"My  good  chap,  that's  the  situation  in  which  our 
emotions  are  always  landing  us — our  confounded  emo- 
tions and  the  conventions  of  Society." 

"And  how  are  you  to  know  whether  the  thing's  love 
—or — all  those  other  things?" 

"You  don't  know:  you  can't  know  till  it's  too  late 
for  your  knowing  to  matter.  Marriage  is  like  spinach, 
You  can't  tell  that  you  hate  it  till  you've  tried  it. 
Only—" 

"Well?" 

"I  think  I've  heard  it  said,"  Vernon  voiced  his  own 
sudden  conviction,  very  carelessly,  "that  love  wants  to 
give  and  passion  wants  to  take.  Love  wants  to  pos- 
sess the  beloved  object — and  to  make  her  happy.  De- 
sire wants  possession  too — but  the  happiness  is  to  be 
for  oneself;  and  if  there's  not  enough  happiness  for 
both  so  much  the  worse.  If  I'm  talking  like  a  Sunday 
School  book  you've  brought  it  on  yourself." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         207 

"I  like  it,"  said  Temple. 

"Well,  since  the  Dissenting  surplice  has  fallen  on  me, 
I'll  give  you  a  test.  I  believe  that  the  more  you  love  a 
woman  the  less  your  thoughts  will  dwell  on  the  physi- 
cal side  of  the  business.  YOU  want  to  take  care  of 
her." 

"Yes,"  said  Temple. 

"And  then  often,"  Vernon  went  on,  surprised  to  find 
that  he  wanted  to  help  the  other  in  his  soul-searchings, 
"if  a  chap's  not  had  much  to  do  with  women — the 
women  of  our  class,  I  mean — he  gets  a  bit  dazed  with 
them.  They're  all  so  nice,  confound  them.  If  a  man 
felt  he  was  falling  in  love  with  two  women  at  once, 
and  he  had  the  tiresome  temperament  that  takes  these 
things  seriously,  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  for  him  to 
go  away  into  the  country,  and  moon  about  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  see  which  was  the  one  that  bothered  his 
brain  most.  Then  he'd  know  where  he  was,  and  not 
be  led  like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter  by  the  wrong  one. 
They  can't  both  get  him,  you  know,  unless  his  inten- 
tions are  strictly  dishonourable." 

"I  wasn't  putting  the  case  that  either  of  them  wished 
to  get  him,"  said  Temple  carefully. 

Vernon  nodded. 

"Of  course  not.  The  thing  simplifies  itself  wonder- 
fully if  neither  of  them  wants  to  get  him.  Even  if 
they  both  do,  matters  are  less  complicated.  It's  when 
only  one  of  them  wants  him  that  it's  the  very  devil  for 
a  man  not  to  be  sure  what  he  wants.  That's  very 
clumsily  put — what  I  mean  is — " 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Temple  impatiently. 

" — It's  the  devil  for  him  because  then  he  lets  him- 
self drift  and  the  one  who  wants  him  collars  him  and 
then  of  course  she  always  turns  out  to  be  the  one  he 


THE  INCOMPLETE -AMORIST 

didn't  want.  My  observations  are  as  full  of  wants  as 
an  advertisement  column.  But  the  thing  to  do  in  all 
relations  of  life  is  to  make  up  your  mind  what  it  is 
that  you  do  want,  and  then  to  jolly  well  see  that  you  get 
it.  What  I  want  is  a  pipe." 

He  filled  and  lighted  one. 

"You  talk,"  said  Temple  slowly,  "as  though  a  man 
could  get  anyone — I  mean  anything,  he  wanted." 

"So  he  can,  my  dear  chap,  if  he  only  wants  her  badly 
enough." 

"Badly  enough?" 

"Badly  enough  to  make  the  supreme  sacrifice  to  get 
her." 

"  ?"  Temple  enquired. 

"Marriage,"  Vernon  answered;  "there's  only  one 
excuse  for  marriage." 

"Excuse?" 

"Excuse.  And  that  excuse  is  that  one  couldn't  help 
it.  The  only  excuse  one  will  have  to  offer,  some  day, 
to  the  recording  angel,  for  all  one's  other  faults  and 
follies.  A  man  who  can  help  getting  married,  and 
doesn't,  deserves  all  he  gets." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  in  the  least,  said  Temple, — 
"about  marriage,  I  mean.  A  man  ought  to  want  to  get 
married — " 

"To  anybody?  Without  its  being  anybody  in  par- 
ticular?" 

"Yes,"  said  Temple  stoutly.  "If  he  gets  to  thirty 
without  wanting  to  marry  any  one  in  particular,  he 
ought  to  look  about  till  he  finds  some  one  he  does  want. 
It's  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  marry  and  have  kid- 
dies." 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  to  be  Patriarchal,"  said  Ver- 
non. "W7hat  a  symbolic  dialogue!  We  begin  with 


"Unfinished,  but  a  disquieting  likeness" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         209 

love  and  we  end  with  marriage!  There's  the  tragedy 
of  romance,  in  a  nut-shell.  Yes,  life's  a  beastly  rotten 
show,  and  the  light  won't  last  more  than  another  two 
hours/' 

"Your  hints  are  always  as  delicate  as  gossamer," 
said  Temple.  "Don't  throw  anything  at  me.  I'm 
going." 

He  went,  leaving  his  secret  in  Vernon's  hands. 

"Poor  old  Temple!  That's  the  worst  of  walking 
carefully  all  your  days:  you  do  come  such  an  awful 
cropper  when  you  do  come  one.  Two  women.  The 
Jasmine  lady  must  have  been  practising  on  his  poor 
little  heart.  Heigh-ho,  I  wish  she  could  do  as  much 
for  me!  And  the  other  one?  Her — I  suppose." 

The  use  of  the  pronoun,  the  disuse  of  the  grammar 
pulled  him  up  short. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said,  "that's  what  people  say  when — 
But  I'm  not  in  love — with  anybody.  I  want  to  work." 

But  he  didn't  work.  He  seldom  did  now.  And 
when  he  did  the  work  was  not  good.  His  easel  held 
most  often  the  portrait  of  Betty  that  had  been  begun 
at  Long  Barton — unfinished,  but  a  disquieting  likeness. 
He  walked  up  and  down  his  room  not  thinking,  but 
dreaming.  His  dreams  took  him  to  the  warren,  in 
the  pure  morning  light ;  he  saw  Betty ;  he  told  himself 
what  he  had  said,  what  she  had  said. 

"And  it  was  I  who  advised  her  to  come  to  Paris.  If 
only  I'd  known  then — " 

He  stopped  and  asked  himself  what  he  knew  now 
that  he  had  not  known  then,  refused  himself  the 
answer,  and  went  to  call  on  Lady  St.  Craye. 

Christmas  came  and  went;  the  black  winds  of  Jan- 
uary swept  the  Boulevards,  and  snow  lay  white  on  the 
walls  of  court  and  garden.  Betty's  life  was  full  now. 


210         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

The  empty  cage  that  had  opened  its  door  to  love  at 
.Long  Barton  had  now  other  occupants.  Ambition  was 
beginning  to  grow  its  wing  feathers.  She  could  draw — 
at  least  some  day  she  would  be  able  to  draw.  Already 
she  had  won  a  prize  with  a  charcoal  study  of  a  bare 
back.  But  she  did  not  dare  to  name  this  to  her  father, 
and  when  he  wrote  to  ask  what  was  the  subject  of  her 
prize  drawing  she  replied  with  misleading  truth  that 
it  was  a  study  from  nature.  His  imagination  pictured 
a  rustic  cottage,  a  water-wheel,  a  castle  and  mountains 
in  the  distance  and  cows  and  a  peasant  in  the  fore- 
ground. 

But  though  her  life  was  now  crowded  with  new 
interests  that  first-comer  was  not  ousted.  Only  he  had 
changed  his  plumage  and  she  called  him  Friendship. 
She  blushed  sometimes  and  stamped  her  foot  when  she 
remembered  those  meetings  in  the  summer  mornings, 
her  tremors,  her  heart-beats.  And  oh,  the  "drivel"  she 
had  written  in  her  diary ! 

"Girls  ought  never  to  be  allowed  to  lead  that  'shel- 
tered home  life,'  "  she  said  to  Miss  Voscoe,  "with  noth- 
ing real  in  it.  It  makes  your  mind  all  swept  and  gar- 
nished and  then  you  hurry  to  fill  it  up  with  rubbish." 

"That's  so,"  said  her  friend. 

"If  ever  /  have  a  daughter,"  said,  Betty,  "she  shall 
set  to  work  at  something  definite  the  very  instant  she 
leaves  school — if  it's  only  Hebrew  or  algebra.  Not 
just  Parish  duties  that  she  didn't  begin,  and  doesn't 
want  to  go  on  with.  But  something  that's  her  own 
work." 

"You're  beginning  to  see  straight.  I  surmised  you 
would  by  and  by.  But  don't  you  go  to  the  other  end 
of  the  see-saw,  Miss  Daisy-Face!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"    asked   Betty.     It   was   the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         211 

morning  interval  when  students  eat  patisserie  out  of 
folded  papers.  The  two  were  on  the  window  ledge  of 
the  Atelier,  looking  down  on  the  convent  garden  where 
already  the  buds  were  breaking  to  green  leaf. 

"Why,  there's  room  for  the  devil  even  if  your  flat 
ain't  swept  and  garnished.  He  folds  up  mighty  small, 
and  gets  into  less  space  than  a  poppy-seed." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Betty  again. 

"I  mean  that  Vernon  chap,"  said  Miss  Voscoe  down- 
rightly.  "I  told  you  to  change  partners  every  now  and 
then.  But  with  you  it's  that  Vernon  this  week  and  last 
week  and  the  week  after  next." 

"I've  known  him  longer  than  I  have  the  others,  and 
I  like  him,"  said  Betty. 

"Oh,  he's  all  right;  fine  and  dandy!"  replied  Miss 
Voscoe.  "He's  a  big  man,  too,  in  his  own  line.  Not 
the  kind  you  expect  to  see  knocking  about  at  a  students' 
cremerie.  Does  he  give  you  lessons?" 

"He  did  at  home,"  said  Betty. 

"Take  care  he  doesn't  teach  you  what's  the  easiest 
thing  in  creation  to  learn  about  a  man." 

"What's  that?"  Betty  did  not  like  to  have  to  ask 
the  question. 

"Why,  how  not  to  be  able  to  do  without  him,  of 
course,"  said  Miss  Voscoe. 

"You're  quite  mistaken,"  said  Betty  eagerly:  "one 
of  the  reasons  I  don't  mind  going  about  with  him  so 
much  is  that  he's  engaged  to  be  married." 

"Acquainted  with  the  lady?" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  sheltering  behind  the  convention 
that  an  introduction  at  a  tea-party  constitutes  acquaint- 
anceship. She  was  glad  Miss  Voscoe  had  not  asked 
her  if  she  knew  Lady  St.  Craye. 

"Oh,  well" — Miss  Voscoe  jumped  up  and  shook  the 


212         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

flakes  of  pastry  off  her  pinafore — "if  she  doesn't  mind, 
I  guess  I've  got  no  call  to.  But  why  don't  you  give 
that  saint  in  the  go-to-hell  collar  a  turn?" 

"Meaning?" 

"Mr.  Temple.  He  admires  you  no  end.  He'd  be 
always  in  your  pocket  if  you'd  let  him.  He's  worth 
fifty  of  the  other  man  as  a  man,  if  he  isn't  as  an  artist. 
I  keep  my  eyes  skinned — and  the  Sketch  Club  gives  me 
a  chance  to  tot  them  both  up.  I  guess  I  can  size  up  a 
man  some.  The  other  man  isn't  fast.  That's  how  it 
strikes  me." 

"Fast?"  echoed  Betty,  bewildered. 

"Fast  dye :  fast  colour.  I  suspicion  he'd  go  wrong  a 
bit  in  the  wash.  Temple's  fast  colour,  warranted  not 
to  run." 

"I  know,"  said  Betty,  "but  I  don't  care  for  the  col- 
our, and  I'm  rather  tired  of  the  pattern." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  which  of  the  two  was  the  three- 
polite-word  man." 

"I  know  you  do.     But  surely  you  see  now?" 

"You're  too  cute.  Just  as  likely  it's  the  Temple  one, 
and  that's  why  you're  so  sick  of  the  pattern  by  now." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  you  were  clever?"  laughed  Betty. 

But,  all  the  same,  next  evening  when  Vernon  called 
to  take  her  to  dinner,  she  said: 

"Couldn't  we  go  somewhere  else  ?  I'm  tired  of  Gar- 
nier's." 

Vernon  was  tired  of  Garnier's,  too. 

"Do  you  know  Thirion's?"  he  said.  "Thirion's  in 
the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  Thirion's  where  Du  Mau- 
rier  used  to  go,  and  Thackeray,  and  all  sorts  of  cele- 
brated people;  and  where  the  host  treats  you  like  a 
friend,  and  the  waiter  like  a  brother?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         213 

"I  should  love  to  be  treated  like  a  waiter's  brother. 
Do  let's  go,"  said  Betty. 

"He's  a  dream  of  a  waiter,"  Vernon  went  on  as 
they  turned  down  the  lighted  slope  of  the  Rue  de  Ren- 
nes,  "has  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  and  takes  a  pride  in 
calling  twenty  orders  down  the  speaking-tube  in  one 
breath,  ending  up  with  a  shout.  He  never  makes  a 
mistake  either.  Shall  we  walk,  or  take  the  tram,  or  a 
carriage?" 

The  Fate  who  was  amusing  herself  by  playing  with 
Betty's  destiny  had  sent  Temple  to  call  on  Lady  St. 
Craye  that  afternoon,  and  Lady  St.  Craye  had  seemed 
bored,  so  bored  that  she  had  hardly  appeared  to  listen 
to  Temple's  talk,  which,  duly  directed  by  her  quite  early 
into  the  channel  she  desired  for  it,  flowed  in  a  constant 
stream  over  the  name,  the  history,  the  work,  the  per- 
sonality of  Vernon.  When  at  last  the  stream  ebbed 
Lady  St.  Craye  made  a  pretty  feint  of  stifling  a  yawn. 

"Oh,  how  horrid  I  am !"  she  cried  with  instant  peni- 
tence, "and  how  very  rude  you  will  think  me !  I  think 
I  have  the  blues  to-day,  or,  to  be  more  French  and 
more  poetic,  the  black  butterflies.  It  is  so  sweet  of  you 
to  have  let  me  talk  to  you.  I  know  I've  been  as  stupid 
•as  an  owl.  Won't  you  stay  and  dine  with  me?  I'll 
promise  to  cheer  up  if  you  will." 

Mr.  Temple  would,  more  than  gladly. 

"Or  no,"  Lady  St.  Craye  went  on,  "that'll  be  dull 
for  you,  and  perhaps  even  for  me  if  I  begin  to  think 
I'm  boring  you.  Couldn't  we  do  something  desper- 
ate— dine  at  a  Latin  Quarter  restaurant  for  instance? 
What  was  that  place  you  were  telling  me  of,  where  the 
waiter  has  a  wonderful  voice  and  makes  the  orders  he 
shouts  down  the  tube  soun<J  like  the  recitative  of  the 
basso  at  the  Opera." 


214 

"Thirion's,"  said  Temple;  "but  it  wasn't  I,  it  was 
Vernon." 

"Thirion's,  that's  it!"  Lady  St.  Craye  broke  in  be- 
fore Vernon's  name  left  his  lips.  "Would  you  like  to 
take  me  there  to  dine,  Mr.  Temple?" 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Temple  would  like  it  of  all 
things. 

"Then  I'll  go  and  put  on  my  hat,"  said  she  and 
trailed  her  sea-green  tea-gown  across  the  room.  At  the 
door  she  turned  to  say:  "It  will  be  fun,  won't  it?" — 
and  to  laugh  delightedly,  like  a  child  who  is  promised 
a  treat. 

That  was  how  it  happened  that  Lady  St.  Craye, 
brushing  her  dark  furs  against  the  wall  of  Thirion's 
staircase,  came,  followed  by  Temple,  into  the  room 
where  Betty  and  Vernon,  their  heads  rather  close  to- 
gether, were  discussing  the  menu. 

This  was  what  Lady  St.  Craye  had  thought  of  more 
than  a  little.  Yet  it  was  not  what  she  had  expected. 
Vernon,  perhaps,  yes :  or  the  girl.  But  not  Vernon  and 
the  girl  together.  Not  now.  At  her  very  first  visit.  It 
was  not  for  a  second  that  she  hesitated.  Temple  had 
not  even  had  time  to  see  who  it  was  to  whom  she  spoke 
before  she  had  walked  over  to  the  two,  and  greeted 
them. 

"How  perfectly  delightful !"  she  said.  "Miss  Des- 
mond, I've  been  meaning  to  call  on  you,  but  it's  been 
so  cold,  and  I've  been  so  cross,  I've  called  on  nobody. 
Ah,  Mr.  Vernon,  you  too?" 

She  looked  at  the  vacant  chair  near  his,  and  Vernon 
had  to  say: 

"You'll  join  us,  of  course?" 

So  the  two  little  parties  made  one  party,  and  one  of 
the  party  was  angry  and  annoyed,  and  no  one  of  the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        215 

party  was  quite  pleased,  and  all  four  concealed  what 
they  felt,  and  affected  what  they  did  not  feel,  with  as 
much  of  the  tact  of  the  truly  well-bred  as  each  could 
call  up.  In  this  polite  exercise  Lady  St.  Craye  was 
easily  first. 

She  was  charming  to  Temple,  she  was  very  nice  to 
Betty,  and  she  spoke  to  Vernon  with  a  delicate,  subtle, 
faint  suggestion  of  proprietorship  in  her  tone.  At  least 
that  was  how  it  seefned  to  Betty.  To  Temple  it  seemed 
that  she  was  tacitly  apologising  to  an  old  friend  for 
having  involuntarily  broken  up  a  dinner  &  deux.  To 
Vernon  her  tone  seemed  to  spell  out  an  all  but 
overmastering  jealousy  proudly  overmastered.  All 
that  pretty  fiction  of  there  being  now  no  possibility  of 
sentiment  between  him  and  her  flickered  down  and 
died.  And  with  it  the  interest  that  he  had  felt  in  her. 
"She  have  unexplored  reserves?  Bah!"  he  told  him- 
self, "she  is  just  like  the  rest."  He  felt  that  she  had 
not  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  river  just  to  dine 
with  Temple.  He  knew  she  had  been  looking  for  him. 
And  the  temptation  assailed  him  to  reward  her  tender 
anxiety  by  devoting  himself  wholly  to  Betty.  Then 
he  remembered  what  he  had  let  Betty  believe,  as  to  the 
relations  in  which  he  stood  to  this  other  woman. 

His  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile  of  answering  ten- 
derness. Without  neglecting  Betty  he  seemed  to  lay 
the  real  homage  of  his  heart  at  the  feet  of  that  heart's 
lady. 

"By  Jove,"  he  thought,  as  the  dark,  beautiful  eyes 
met  his  in  a  look  of  more  tenderness  than  he  had  seen 
in  them  this  many  a  day,  "if  only  she  knew  how  she's 
playing  my  game  for  me!" 

Betty,  for  her  part,  refused  to  recognise  a  little  pain 
that  gnawed  at  her  heart  and  stole  all  taste  from  the 


2i6          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

best  dishes  of  Thirion's.  She  talked  as  much  as  pos- 
sible to  Temple,  because  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  do, 
she  told  herself,  and  she  talked  very  badly.  Lady  St. 
Craye  was  transfigured  by  Vernon's  unexpected  accept- 
ance of  her  delicate  advances,  intoxicated  by  the  sud- 
den flutter  of  a  dream  she  had  only  known  with  wings 
in  full  flight,  into  the  region  where  dreams,  clasped  to 
the  heart,  become  realities.  She  grew  momently 
more  beautiful.  The  host,  going  from  table  to  table, 
talking  easily  to  his  guests,  could  not  keep  his  fasci- 
nated eyes  from  her  face.  The  proprietor  of  Thirion's 
had  good  taste,  and  knew  a  beautiful  woman  when  he 
saw  her. 

Betty's  eyes,  too,  strayed  more  and  more  often  from 
her  plate,  and  from  Temple  to  the  efflorescence  of  this 
new  beauty-light.  She  felt  mean  and  poor,  ill-dressed, 
shabby,  dowdy,  dull,  weary  and  uninteresting.  Her 
face  felt  tired.  It  was  an  effort  to  smile. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  she  said  abruptly : 

"If  you'll  excuse  me — I've  got  a  dreadful  headache 
— no,  I  don't  want  anyone  to  see  me  home,  Just  put 
me  in  a  carriage." 

She  insisted,  and  it  was  done. 

When  the  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  closed 
porte  cochere  of  57  Boulevard  Montparnasse,  Betty 
was  surprised  and  wounded  to  discover  that  she  was 
crying. 

"Well,  you  knew  they  were  engaged!"  she  said  as 
she  let  herself  into  her  room  with  her  latchkey.  "You 
knew  they  were  engaged !  What  did  you  expect  ?" 

Temple  could  not  remember  afterwards  exactly  how 
he  got  separated  from  the  others.  It  just  happened,  as 
such  unimportant  things  will.  He  missed  them  some- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          217 

how,  at  a  crossing,  looked  about  him  in  vain,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  went  home. 

Lady  St.  Craye  hesitated  a  moment  with  her  latch- 
key in  her  hand.  Then  she  threw  open  the  door  of  her 
flat. 

"Come  In,  won't  you?"  she  said,  and  led  the  way 
into  her  fire-warm,  flower-scented,  lamplit  room. 
Vernon  also  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  followed. 
He  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  the  wood 
fire.  He  did  not  speak. 

Somehow  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  take  up  their 
talk  at  the  place  and  in  the  strain  where  it  had  broken 
off  when  Betty  proclaimed  her  headache. 

Yet  this  was  what  she  must  do,  it  seemed  to  her,  or 
lose  all  the  ground  she  had  gained. 

"You've  been  very  charming  to  me  this  evening,"  she 
said  at  last,  and  knew  as  she  said  it  that  it  was  the 
wrong  thing  to  say. 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Vernon. 

"I  was  so  surprised  to  see  you  there,"  she  went  on. 

Vernon  was  surprised  that  she  should  say  it.  He 
had  thought  more  highly  of  her  powers. 

"The  pleasure  was  mine,"  he  said  in  his  most  banal 
tones,  "the  surprise,  alas,  was  all  for  you — and  all  you 
gained." 

"Weren't  you  surprised?" — Lady  St.  Craye  was 
angry  and  humiliated.  That  she — she — should  find 
herself  nervous,  at  fault,  find  herself  playing  the  game 
as  crudely  as  any  shopgirl! 

"No,"  said  Vernon. 

"But  you  couldn't  have  expected  me?"  She  knew 
quite  well  what  she  was  doing,  but  she  was  too  ner- 
vous to  stop  herself. 


2i8         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I've  always  expected  you,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"ever  since  I  told  you  that  I  often  dined  at  Thirion's." 

"You  expected  me  to — " 

"To  run  after  me  ?"  said  Vernon  with  paraded  ingen- 
uousness; "yes,  didn't  you?" 

"I  run  after  you?  You — "  she  stopped  short,  for 
she  saw  in  his  eyes  that,  if  she  let  him  quarrel  with  her 
now,  it  was  forever. 

He  at  the  same  moment  awoke  from  the  trance  of 
anger  that  had  come  upon  him  when  he  found  himself 
alone  with  her ;  anger  at  her,  and  at  himself,  fanned  to 
fury  by  the  thought  of  Betty  and  of  what  she,  at  this 
moment,  must  be  thinking.  He  laughed : 

"Ah,  don't  break  my  heart!"  he  said,  "I've  been  so 
happy  all  the  evening  fancying  that  you  had — you 
had—" 

"Had  what  ?"  she  asked  with  dry  lips,  for  the  caress 
in  his  tone  was  such  as  to  deceive  the  very  elect. 

"Had  felt  just  the  faintest  little  touch  of  interest  in 
me.  Had  cared  to  know  how  I  spent  my  evenings,  and 
with  whom !" 

"You  thought  I  could  stoop  to  spy  on  you?"  she 
asked.  "Monsieur  flatters  himself." 

The  anger  in  him  was  raising  its  head  again. 

"Monsieur  very  seldom  does,"  he  said. 

She  took  that  as  she  chose  to  take  it. 

"No,  you're  beautifully  humble." 

"And  you're  proudly  beautiful." 

She  flushed  and  looked  down. 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  told  that  you're  beautiful?" 

"Not  by  you.    Not  like  that!" 

"And  so  you  didn't  come  to  Thirion's  to  see  me? 
How  one  may  deceive  oneself !  The  highest  hopes  we 
cherish  here!  Another  beautiful  illusion  gone!" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          219 

She  said  to  herself :  "I  can  do  nothing-  with  him  in 
this  mood,"  and  aloud  she  could  not  help  saying :  "Was 
it  a  beautiful  one?" 

"Very,"  he  answered  gaily.    "Can  you  doubt  it?" 

She  found  nothing  to  say.  And  even  as  she  fought 
for  words  she  suddenly  found  that  he  had  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her,  and  that  the  sound  of  the 
door  that  had  banged  behind  him  was  echoing  in  her 
ears. 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  head.  She  could  not  see 
clearly. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

INTERVENTIONS. 

That  kiss  gave  Lady  St.  Craye  furiously  to  think,  as 
they  say  in  France. 

Had  it  meant —  ?  What  had  it  meant  ?  Was  it  the 
crown  of  her  hopes,  her  dreams  ?  Was  it  possible  that 
now,  at  last,  after  all  that  had  gone  before,  she  might 
win  him — had  won  him,  even? 

The  sex-instinct  said  "No." 

Then,  if  "No"  were  the  answer  to  that  question,  the 
kiss  had  been  mere  brutality.  It  had  meant  just: 

"You  chose  to  follow  me — to  play  the  spy.  What 
the  deuce  do  you  want  ?  Is  it  this  ?  God  knows  you're 
welcome,"  the  kiss  following. 

The  kiss  stung.  It  was  not  the  first.  But  the  others 
— even  the  last  of  them,  two  years  before,  had  not  had 
that  sting. 

Lady  St.  Craye,  biting  her  lips  in  lonely  dissection 
of  herself  and  of  him,  dared  take  no  comfort.  Also, 
she  no  longer  dared  to  follow  him,  to  watch  him,  to 
spy  on  him. 

In  her  jasmine-scented  leisure  Lady  St.  Craye  ana- 
lysed herself,  and  him  and  Her.  Above  all  Her — who 
was  Betty.  To  find  out  how  it  all  seemed  to  her — that, 
presently,  seemed  to  Lady  St.  Craye  the  one  possible, 
the  one  important  thing.  So  after  she  had  given  a  few 
days  to  the  analysis  of  that  kiss,  had  failed  to  reach 
certainty  as  to  its  elements,  had  writhed  in  her  failure, 
and  bitterly  resented  the  mysteries  constituent  that 

220 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          221 

falsified  all  her  calculations,  she  dressed  herself  beauti- 
fully, and  went  to  call  on  the  constituent,  Betty. 

Betty  was  at  home.  She  was  drawing  at  a  table, 
cunningly  placed  at  right  angles  to  the  window.  She 
rose  with  a  grace  that  Lady  St.  Craye  had  not  seen  in 
her.  She  was  dressed  in  a  plain  gown,  that  hung  from 
the  shoulders  in  long,  straight,  green  folds.  Her  hair 
was  down. — And  Betty  had  beautiful  hair.  Lady  St. 
Craye's  hair  had  never  been-  long.  Betty's  fell  nearly 
to  her  knees. 

"Oh,  was  the  door  open  ?"  she  said.  "I  didn't  know, 
I've — I'm  so  sorry — I've  been  washing  my  hair." 

"It's  lovely,"  said  the  other  woman,  with  an  appre- 
ciation quite  genuine.  "What  a  pity  you  can't  always 
wear  it  like  that!" 

"It's  long,"  said  Betty  disparagingly,  "but  the  col- 
our's horrid.  What  Miss  Voscoe  calls  Boy  colour." 

"Boy  colour?" 

"Oh,  just  nothing  in  particular.     Mousy." 

"If  you  had  golden  hair,  or  black,  Miss  Desmond, 
you'd  have  a  quite  unfair  advantage  over  the  rest  of 
us." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Betty  very  simply;  "you  see, 
no  one  ever  sees  it  down." 

"What  a  charming  place  you've  got  here,"  Lady  St. 
Craye  went  on. 

"Yes,"  said  Betty,  "it  is  nice,"  and  she  thought  of 
Paula. 

"And  do  you  live  here  all  alone?" 

"Yes :  I  had  a  friend  with  me  at  first,  but  she's  gone 
back  to  England." 

"Don't  you  find  it  very  dull  ?" 

"Oh,  no !    I  know  lots  of  people  now." 

"And  they  come  to  see  you  here  ?" 


222          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Lady  St.  Craye  had  decided  that  it  was  not  necessary 
to  go  delicately.  The  girl  was  evidently  stupid,  and 
one  need  not  pick  one's  words. 

"Yes,"  said  Betty. 

"Mr.  Vernon's  a  great  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  you  see  a  great  deal  of  him?" 

"Yes.  Is  there  anything  else  you  would  like  to 
know?" 

The  scratch  was  so  sudden,  so  fierce,  so  feline  that 
for  a  moment  Lady  St.  Craye  could  only  look  blankly 
at  her  hostess.  Then  she  recovered  herself  enough  to 
say: 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  Was  I  asking  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions? It's  a  dreadful  habit  of  mine,  I'm  afraid,  when 
I'm  interested  in  people." 

Betty  scratched  again  quite  calmly  and  quite  merci- 
lessly. 

"It's  quite  natural  that  Mr.  Vernon  should  interest 
you.  But  I  don't  think  I'm  likely  to  be  able  to  tell  you 
anything  about  him  that  you  don't  know.  May  I  get 
you  some  tea?" 

It  was  impossible  for  Lady  St.  Craye  to  reply :  "I 
meant  that  I  was  interested  in  you — not  in  Mr.  Ver- 
non ;"  so  she  said : 

"Thank  you— that  will  be  delightful." 

Betty  went  along  the  little  passage  to  her  kitchen, 
and  her  visitor  was  left  to  revise  her  impressions. 

When  Betty  came  back  with  the  tea-tray,  her  hair 
was  twisted  up.  The  kettle  could  be  heard  hissing  in 
the  tiny  kitchen. 

"Can't  I  help  you?"  Lady  St.  Craye  asked,  leaning 
back  indolently  in  the  most  comfortable  chair. 

"No,  thank  you :  it's  all  done  now." 


"  '  No,  thank  you :  it's  all  done  now J 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          223 

Betty  poured  the  tea  for  the  other  woman  to  drink. 
Her  own  remained  untasted.  She  exerted  herself  to 
manufacture  small-talk,  was  very  amiable,  very  atten- 
tive. Lady  St.  Craye  almost  thought  she  must  have 
dreamed  those  two  sharp  cat-scratches  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  interview.  But  presently  Betty's  polite  re- 
marks came  less  readily.  There  were  longer  intervals 
of  silence.  And  Lady  St.  Craye  for  once  was  at  a  loss. 
Her  nerve  was  gone.  She  dared  not  tempt  the  claws 
again.  After  the  longest  pause  of  all  Betty  said  sud- 
denly: 

"I  think  I  know  why  you  came  to-day." 

"I  came  to  see  you,  because  you're  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Vernon's." 

"You  came  to  see  me  because  you  wanted  to  find 
out  exactly  how  much  I'm  a  friend  of  Mr.  Vernon's. 
Didn't  you?" 

Candour  is  the  most  disconcerting  of  the  virtues. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Lady  St.  Craye  found  herself  say- 
ing. "I  came  to  see  you — because — as  I  said." 

"I  don't  think  it  is  much  use  your  coming  to  see 
me,"  Betty  went  on,  "though,  if  you  meant  it  kindly — 
But  you  didn't — you  didn't!  If  you  had  it  wouldn't 
have  made  any  difference.  We  should  never  get  on 
with  each  other,  never." 

"Really,  Miss  Desmond" — Lady  St.  Craye  clutched 
her  card-case  and  half  rose — "I  begin  to  think  we  never 
should." 

Betty's  ignorance  of  the  usages  of  good  society 
stood  her  friend.  She  ignored,  not  consciously,  but 
by  the  prompting  of  nature,  the  social  law  which  de- 
crees that  one  should  not  speak  of  things  that  really 
interest  one. 


224         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Do  sit  down,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  you  came — be- 
cause I  know  exactly  what  you  mean,  now." 

"If  the  knowledge  were  only  mutual !"  sighed  Lady 
St.  Craye,  and  found  courage  to  raise  eyebrows  wea- 
rily. 

"You  don't  like  my  going  about  with  Mr.  Vernon. 
Well,  you've  only  to  say  so.  Only  when  you're  mar- 
ried you'll  find  you've  got  your  work  cut  out  to  keep 
him  from  having  any  friends  except  you." 

Lady  St.  Craye  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing 
this  likely  to  be  the  truth.  She  said : 

"When  I'm  married?" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty  firmly.  "You're  jealous;  you've 
no  cause  to  be — and  I  tell  you  that  because  I  think 
being  jealous  must  hurt.  But  it  would  have  been  nicer 
of  you,  if  you'd  come  straight  to  me  and  said :  'Look 
here,  I  don't  like  you  going  about  with  the  man  I'm 
engaged  to.'  I  should  have  understood  then  and  re- 
spected you.  But  to  come  like  a  child's  Guide  to 
Knowledge — " 

The  other  woman  was  not  listening.  "Engaged  to 
him!" — The  words  sang  deliciously,  disquietingly  in 
her  ears. 

"But  who  said  I  was  engaged  to  him  ?" 

"He  did,  of  course.  He  isn't  ashamed  of  it — if  you 
are." 

"He  told  you  that!" 

"Yes.     Now  aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?" 

Country-bred  Betty,  braced  by  the  straightforward 
'directness  of  Miss  Voscoe,  and  full  of  the  nervous 
energy  engendered  by  a  half-understood  trouble,  had 
routed,  for  a  moment,  the  woman  of  the  world.  But 
only  for  a  moment.  Then  Lady  St.  Craye,  unable  to 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          225 

estimate  the  gain  or  loss  of  the  encounter,  pulled  her- 
self together  to  make  good  her  retreat. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  her  charming  smile.  "I  am 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  was  jealous — I  own  it.  But  I 
shouldn't  have  shown  it  as  I  did  if  I'd  known  the  sort 
of  girl  you  are.  Come,  forgive  me  1  Can't  you  under- 
stand— and  forgive?" 

"It  was  all  my  fault."  The  generosity  of  Betty  hast- 
ened to  meet  what  it  took  to  be  the  generosity  of  the 
other.  "Forgive  me.  I  won't  see  him  again  at  all — if 
you  don't  want  me  to." 

"No,  no."  Even  at  that  moment,  in  one  illuminat- 
ing flash,  Lady  St.  Craye  saw  the  explications 
that  must  follow  the  announcement  of  that  renun- 
ciatory decision.  "No,  no.  If  you  do  that  I  shall 
feel  sure  that  you  don't  forgive  me  for  being  so  silly. 
Just  let  everything  go  on — won't  you?  And  please, 
please  don't  tell  him  anything  about — about  to-day." 

"How  could  I?"  asked  Betty. 

"But  promise  you  won't.  You  know — men  are  so 
vain.  I  should  hate  him  to  know" — she  hesitated  and 
then  finished  the  sentence  with  fine  art — "to  know — 
how  much  I  care." 

"Of  course  you  care,"  said  Betty  downrightly.  "You 
ought  to  care.  It  would  be  horrid  of  you  if  you  didn't." 

"But  I  don't,  now.  Now  I  know  you,  Miss  Des- 
mond. I  understand  so  well — and  I  like  to  think  of  his 
being  with  you." 

Even  to  Betty's  ears  this  did  not  ring  quite  true. 

"You  like—?"  she  said. 

"I  mean  I  quite  understand  now.  I  thought — I 
don't  know  what  I  thought.  You're  so  pretty,  you 
know.  And  he  has  had  so  very  many — love-affairs." 

"He  hasn't  one  with  me,"  said  Betty  briefly. 


226         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Ah,  you're  still  angry.  And  no  wonder.  Do  for- 
give me,  Miss  Desmond,  and  let's  be  friends." 

Betty's  look  as  she  gave  her  hand  was  doubtful.  But 
the  hand  was  given. 

"And  you'll  keep  my  poor  little  secret?" 

"I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  proud 
for  him  to  know  how  much  you  care." 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  Lady  St.  Craye  became  natural  for 
an  instant  under  the  transfiguring  influence  of  her  real 
thoughts  as  she  spoke  them,  "my  dear,  don't  believe  it ! 
When  a  man's  sure  of  you  he  doesn't  care  any  more. 
It's  while  he's  not  quite  sure  that  he  cares." 

"I  don't  think  that's  so  always,"  said  Betty. 

"Ah,  believe  me,  there  are  'more  ways  of  killing  a 
cat  than  choking  it  with  butter.'  Forgive  the  homely 
aphorism.  When  you  have  a  lover  of  your  own — or 
perhaps  you  have  now  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  have."  Betty  stood  on  guard  with  a 
steady  face. 

"Well,  when  you  have — or  if  you  have — remember 
never  to  let  him  be  quite  sure.  It's  the  only  way." 

The  two  parted,  with  a  mutually  kindly  feeling  that 
surprised  one  as  much  as  the  other.  Lady  St.  Craye 
drove  home  contrasting  bitterly  the  excellence  of  her 
maxims  with  the  ineptitude  of  her  practice.  She  had 
let  him  know  that  she  cared.  And  he  had  left  her. 
That  was  two  years  ago.  And,  now  that  she  had  met 
him  again,  when  she  might  have  played  the  part  she 
had  recommended  to  that  chit  with  the  long  hair — the 
part  she  knew  to  be  the  wise  one — she  had  once  more 
suffered  passion  to  overcome  wisdom,  and  had  shown 
him  that  she  loved  him.  And  he  had  kissed  her. 

She  blushed  in  the  dusk  of  her  carriage  for  the 
shame  of  that  kiss. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         227 

But  he  had  told  that  girl  that  he  was  engaged  to  her. 

A  delicious  other  flush  replaced  the  blush  of  shame. 
Why  should  he  have  done  that  unless  he  really 
meant — ?  In  that  case  the  kiss  was  nothing  to  blush 
about.  And  yet  it  was.  She  knew  it 

She  had  time  to  think  in  the  days  that  followed,  days 
that  brought  Temple  more  than  once  to  her  doors,  but 
Vernon  never. 

Betty  left  alone  let  down  her  damp  hair  and  tried  to 
resume  her  drawing.  But  it  would  not  do.  The  emo- 
tion of  the  interview  was  too  recent.  Her  heart  was 
beating  still  with  anger,  and  resentment,  and  other 
feelings  less  easily  named. 

Vernon  was  to  come  to  fetch  her  at  seven.  She 
would  not  face  him.  Let  him  go  and  dine  with  the 
woman  he  belonged  to! 

Betty  went  out  at  half-past  six.  She  would  not  go 
to  Carrier's,  nor  to  Thirion's.  That  was  where  he 
would  look  for  her. 

She  walked  steadily  on,  down  the  boulevard.  She 
would  dine  at  some  place  she  had  never  been  to  before. 
A  sickening  vision  of  that  first  night  in  Paris  swam  be- 
fore her.  She  saw  again  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  heard 
the  voices  of  the  women  who  had  spoken  to  Paula,  saw 
the  eyes  of  the  men  who  had  been  the  companions  of 
those  women.  In  that  rout  the  face  of  Temple  shone — • 
clear  cut,  severe.  She  remembered  the  instant  resent- 
ment that  had  thrilled  her  at  his  protective  attitude, 
remembered  it  and  wondered  at  it  a  little.  She  would 
not  have  felt  that  now.  She  knew  her  Paris  better 
than  she  had  done  then. 

And  with  the  thought,  the  face  of  Temple  came  to- 
wards her  out  of  the  crowd.  He  raised  his  hat  in 
response  to  her  frigid  bow,  and  had  almost  passed  her, 


228         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

when  she  spoke  on  an  impulse  that  surprised  herself. 

"Oh— Mr.  Temple!" 

He  stopped  and  turned. 

"I  was  looking  for  a  place  to  dine.  I'm  tired  of  Gar- 
nier's  and  Thirion's." 

He  hesitated.  And  he,  too,  remembered  the  night 
at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  when  she  had  disdained  his 
advice  and  gone  back  to  take  the  advice  of  Paula. 

He  caught  himself  assuring  himself  that  a  man  need 
not  be  ashamed  to  risk  being  snubbed — making  a  fool 
of  himself  even — if  he  could  do  any  good.  So .  he 
said:  "You  know  I  have  horrid  old-fashioned  ideas 
about  women,"  and  stopped  short. 

"Don't  you  know  of  any  good  quiet  place  near 
here?"  said  Betty. 

"I  think  women  ought  to  be  taken  care  of.  But  some 
of  them — Miss  Desmond,  I'm  so  afraid  of  ypu — I'm 
afraid  of  boring  you — " 

Remorse  stirred  her. 

"You've  always  been  most  awfully  kind,"  she  said 
warmly.  "I've  often  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I'm  sorry 
about  that  first  time  I  saw  you — I'm  not  sorry  for  what 
I  did"  she  added  in  haste;  "I  can  never  be  anything 
but  glad  for  that.  But  I'm  sorry  I  seemed  ungrateful 
to  you." 

"Now  you  give  me  courage,"  he  said.  "I  do  know 
a  quiet  little  place  quite  near  here.  And,  as  you  haven't 
any  of  your  friends  with  you,  won't  you  take  pity  on 
me  and  let  me  dine  with  you?" 

"You're  sure  you're  not  giving  up  some  nice  en- 
gagement— just  to — to  be  kind  to  me?"  she  asked. 
And  the  forlornness  of  her  tone  made  him  almost  for- 
get that  he  had  half  promised  to  join  a  party  of  Lady 
St.  Craye's. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         229 

"I  should  like  to  come  with  you — I  should  like  it  of 
all  things,"  he  said;  and  he  said  it  convincingly. 

They  dined  together,  and  the  dinner  was  unexpect- 
edly pleasant  to  both  of  them.  They  talked  of  Eng- 
land, of  wood,  field  and  meadow,  and  Betty  found  her- 
self talking  to  him  of  the  garden  at  home  and  of  the 
things  that  grew  there,  as  she  had  talked  to  Paula,  and 
as  she  had  never  talked  to  Vernon. 

"It's  so  lovely  all  the  year,"  she  said.  "When  the 
last  mignonette's  over,  there  are  the  chrysanthemums, 
and  then  the  Christmas  roses,  and  ever  so  early  in  Jan- 
uary the  winter  aconite  and  the  snow-drops,  and  thevio- 
lets  under  the  south  wall.  And  then  the  little  green  daf- 
fodil leaves  come  up  and  the  buds,  though  it's  weeks 
before  they  turn  into  flowers.  And  if  it's  a  mild  win- 
ter the  primroses — just  little  baby  ones — seem  to  go  on 
all  the  time." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know.  And  the  wallflowers, 
they're  green  all  the  time. — And  the  monthly  roses, 
they  flower  at  Christmas.  And  then  when  the  real 
roses  begin  to  bud — and  when  June  comes — and  you're 
drunk  with  the  scent  of  red  roses — the  kind  you  always 
long  for  at  Christmas." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Betty— "do  you  feel  like  that  too? 
And  if  you  get  them,  they're  soft  limp-stalked  things, 
like  caterpillars  half  disguised  as  roses  by  some  incom- 
petent fairy.  Not  like  the  stiff  solid  heavy  velvet  roses 
with  thick  green  leaves  and  heaps  of  thorns.  Those  are 
the  roses  one  longs  for." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Those  are  the  roses  one  longs  for." 
And  an  odd  pause  punctuated  the  sentence. 

But  the  pause  did  not  last.  There  was  so  much  to 
talk  of — now  that  barrier  of  resentment,  wattled 
with  remorse,  was  broken  down.  It  was  an  odd  revela- 


1230         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

tion  to  each — the  love  of  the  other  for  certain  authors, 
certain  pictures,  certain  symphonies,  certain  dramas. 
The  discovery  of  this  sort  of  community  of  tastes  is  like 
the  meeting  in  far  foreign  countries  of  a  man  who 
speaks  the  tongue  of  one's  mother  land.  The  two  lin- 
gered long  over  their  coffee,  and  the  "Grand  Marnier" 
which  their  liking  for  "The  Garden  of  Lies"  led  to 
their  ordering.  Betty  had  forgotten  Vernon,  forgot- 
ten Lady  St.  Craye,  in  the  delightful  interchange  of : 

"Oh,  I  do  like—" 

"And  don't  you  like—?" 

"And  isn't  that  splendid?" 

These  simple  sentences,  interchanged,  took  on  the 
value  of  intimate  confidences. 

"I've  had  such  a  jolly  time,"  Temple  said.  "I 
haven't  had  such  a  talk  for  ages." 

And  yet  all  the  talk  had  been  mere  confessions  of 
faith — in  Ibsen,  in  Browning,  in  Maeterlinck,  in  Eng- 
lish gardens,  in  Art  for  Art's  sake,  and  in  Whistler  and 
Beethoven. 

"I've  liked  it  too,"  said  Betty. 

"And  it's  awfully  jolly,"  he  went  on,  "to  feel  that 
you've  forgiven  me" — the  speech  suddenly  became  dif- 
ficult,— "at  least  I  mean  to  say — "  he  ended  lamely. 

"It's  I  who  ought  to  be  forgiven,"  said  Betty.  "I'm 
very  glad  I  met  you.  I've  enjoyed  our  talk  ever  so 
much." 

Vernon  spent  an  empty  evening,  and  waylaid  Betty 
as  she  left  her  class  next  day. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  help  it.  I  sud- 
denly felt  I  wanted  something  different.  So  I  dined  at 
a  new  place." 

"Alone  ?"  said  Vernon. 
'      "No,"  said  Betty  with  her  chin  in  the  air. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          231 

Vernon  digested,  as  best  he  might,  his  first  mouth- 
ful of  jealousy — real  downright  sickening  jealousy. 
The  sensation  astonished  him  so  much  that  he  lacked 
the  courage  to  dissect  it. 

"Will  you  dine  with  me  to-night?"  was  all  he  found 
to  say. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Betty.  But  it  was  not  with 
pleasure  that  she  dined.  There  was  something  between 
her  and  Vernon.  Both  felt  it,  and  both  attributed  it  to 
the  same  cause. 

The  three  dinners  that  followed  in  the  next  fortnight 
brought  none  of  that  old  lighthearted  companionship 
which  had  been  the  gayest  of  table-decorations.  Some- 
thing was  gone — lost — as  though  a  royal  rose  had  sud- 
denly faded,  a  rainbow-coloured  bubble  had  broken. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Betty;  "if  he's  engaged,  I  don't 
want  to  feel  happy  with  him." 

She  did  not  feel  happy  without  him.  The  Inward 
Monitor  grew  more  and  more  insistent.  She  caught 
herself  wondering  how  Temple,  with  the  serious  face 
and  the  honest  eyes,  would  regard  the  lies,  the  trick- 
eries, the  whole  tissue  of  deceit  that  had  won  her  her 
chance  of  following  her  own  art,  of  living  her  own  life. 

Vernon  understood,  presently,  that  not  even  that 
evening  at  Thirion's  could  give  the  key  to  this  uncom- 
forting  change.  He  had  not  seen  Lady  St.  Craye  since 
the  night  of  the  kiss. 

It  was  after  the  fourth  flat  dinner  with  Betty  that 
he  said  good-night  to  her  early  and  abruptly,  and  drove 
to  Lady  St.  Craye's. 

She  was  alone.  She  rose  to  greet  him,  and  he  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  dark-rimmed,  and  her  lips  rough. 

"This  is  very  nice  of  you,"  she  said.  "It's  nearly  a 
month  since  I  saw  you." 


232          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  know  it  is.  Do  you  remember 
the  last  time?  Hasn't  that  taught  you  not  to  play  with 
me?" 

The  kiss  was  explained  now.  Lady  St.  Craye  shiv- 
ered. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean?"  she  said,  feebly. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do!  You're  much  too  clever  not  to 
understand.  Come  to  think  of  it,  you're  much  too 
everything — too  clever,  too  beautiful,  too  charming, 
too  everything." 

"You  overwhelm  me,"  she  made  herself  say. 

"Not  at  all.  You  know  your  points.  What  I  want 
to  know  is  just  one  thing — and  that's  the  thing  you're 
going  to  tell  me." 

She  drew  her  dry  lips  inward  to  moisten  them. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  Why  do  you  speak 
to  me  like  that?  What  have  I  done?" 

"That's  what  you're  going  to  tell  me." 

"I  shall  tell  you  nothing — while  you  ask  in  that 
tone." 

"Won't  you?  How  can  I  persuade  you?"  his  tone 
caressed  and  stung.  "What  arguments  can  I  use? 
Must  I  kiss  you  again  ?" 

She  drew  herself  up,  called  wildly  on  all  her  powers 
to  resent  the  insult.  Nothing  came  at  her  call. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ?"  she  asked,  and 
her  eyes  implored  the  mercy  she  would  not  consciously 
have  asked. 

He  saw,  and  he  came  a  little  nearer  to  her — looking 
down  at  her  upturned  face  with  eyes  before  which  her 
own  fell. 

"You  don't  want  another  kiss  ?"  he  said.  "Then  tell 
me  what  you've  been  saying  to  Miss  Desmond." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  TRUTH. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Come,  my  pretty  Jasmine  lady,  speak  the  truth." 

"I  will:    What  a  brute  you  are!" 

"So  another  lady  told  me  a  few  months  ago.  Come, 
tell  me." 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  anything?"  She  tried  to 
touch  her  tone  with  scorn. 

"Because  I  choose.  You  thought  you  could  play 
with  me  and  fool  me  and  trick  me  out  of  what  I  mean 
to  have—" 

"What  you  mean  to  have?" 

"Yes,  what  I  mean  to  have.  I  mean  to  marry  Miss 
Desmond — if  she'll  have  me." 

"You — mean  to  marry?  Saul  is  among  the  prophets 
with  a  vengeance!"  The  scorn  came  naturally  to  her 
voice  now. 

Vernon  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  Nothing  had 
ever  astonished  him  so  much  as  those  four  words, 
spoken  in  his  own  voice,  "I  mean  to  marry."  He  re- 
peated them.  "I  mean  to  marry  Miss  Desmond,  if  she'll 
have  me.  And  it's  your  doing." 

"Of  course,"  she  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Natur- 
ally it  would  be.  Won't  you  sit  down?  You  look  so 
uncomfortable.  Those  French  tragedy  scenes  with  the 
hero  hat  in  one  hand  and  gloves  in  the  other  always 
seem  to  me  so  comic." 

2.33 


234         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

That  was  her  score,  the  first.  He  put  down  the  hat 
and  gloves  and  came  towards  her.  And  as  he  came 
he  hastily  sketched  his  plan  of  action.  When  he 
reached  her  it  was  ready  formed.  His  anger  was  al- 
ways short  lived.  It  had  died  down  and  left  him  com- 
petent as  ever  to  handle  the  scene. 

He  took  her  hands,  pushed  her  gently  into  a  chair 
near  the  table,  and  sat  down  beside  her  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table  and  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  said.  "I  was  a  brute.  For- 
give me — and  help  me.  No  one  can  help  me  but  you." 

It  was  a  master-stroke:  and  he  had  staked  a  good 
deal  on  it.  The  stake  was  not  lost.  She  found  no 
words. 

"My  dear,  sweet  Jasmine  lady,"  he  said,  "let  me  talk 
to  you.  Let  me  tell  you  everything.  I  can  talk  to  you 
as  I  can  talk  to  no  one  else,  because  I  know  you're  fond 
of  me.  You  are  fond  of  me — a  little,  aren't  you — for 
the  sake  of  old  times?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  fond  of  you." 

"And  you  forgive  me — you  do  forgive  me  for  being 
such  a  brute?  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  speaking  as  one  speaks  in  dreams, 
"I  forgive  you." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  humbly;  "you  were  always 
generous.  And  you  always  understand." 

"Wait — wait.  I'll  attend  to  you  presently,"  she  was 
saying  to  her  heart.  "Yes,  I  know  it's  all  over.  I  know 
the  game's  up.  Let  me  pull  through  this  without  dis- 
gracing myself,  and  I'll  let  you  hurt  me  as  much  as  you 
like  afterwards." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  gently  to  Vernon,  "tell  me  every- 
thing." 

He  was  silent,  his  face  still  hidden.    He  had  cut  the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         235 

knot  of  an  impossible  situation  and  he  was  pausing  to 
admire  the  cleverness  of  the  stroke.  In  two  minutes 
he  had  blotted  out  the  last  six  months — months  in 
which  he  and  she  had  been  adversaries.  He  had  thrown 
himself  on  her  mercy,  and  he  had  done  wisely.  Never, 
even  in  the  days  when  he  had  carefully  taught  himself 
to  be  in  love  with  her,  had  he  liked  her  so  well  as  now, 
when  she  got  up  from  her  chair  to  come  and  lay  her 
hand  softly  on  his  shoulder  and  to  say : 

"My  poor  boy, — but  there's  nothing  for  you  to  be 
unhappy  about.  Tell  me  all  about  it — from  the  very 
beginning." 

There  was  a  luxurious  temptation  in  the  idea.  It 
was  not  the  first  time,  naturally,  that  Vernon  had  "told 
all  about  it"  with  a  sympathetic  woman-hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  knew  the  strategic  value  of  confidences. 
But  always  he  had  made  the  confidences  fit  the  occasion 
— serve  the  end  he  had  in  view.  Now,  such  end  as 
had  been  in  view  was  gained.  He  knew  that  it  was 
only  a  matter  of  time  now,  before  she  should  tell  him 
of  her  own  accord,  what  he  could  never  by  any  bru- 
tality have  forced  her  to  tell.  And  the  temptation 
to  speak,  for  once,  the  truth  about  himself  was  over- 
mastering. It  is  a  luxury  one  can  so  very  rarely  afford. 
Most  of  us  go  the  whole  long  life-way  without  tasting 
it.  There  was  nothing  to  lose  by  speaking  the  truth. 
Moreover,  he  must  say  something,  and  why  not  the 
truth  ?  So  he  said : 

"It  all  comes  of  that  confounded  habit  of  mine  of 
wanting  to  be  in  love." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  were  always  so  anxious  to  be — 
weren't  you?  And  you  never  were — till  now." 

The  echo  of  his  hidden  thought  made  it  easier  for 
him  to  go  on. 


236         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"It  was  at  Long  Barton,"  he  said, — "it's  a  little  dead 
and  alive  place  in  Kent.  I  was  painting  that  picture 
that  you  like — the  one  that's  in  the  Salon,  and  I  was 
bored  to  death,  and  she  walked  straight  into  the  compo- 
sition in  a  pink  gown  that  made  her  look  like  a  La 
France  rose  that  has  been  rained  on — you  know  the  sort 
of  pink-turning-to-mauve." 

"And  it  was  love  at  first  sight?"  said  she,  and  took 
away  her  hand. 

"Not  it,"  said  Vernon,  catching  the  hand  and  hold- 
ing it;  "it  was  just  the  usual  thing.  I  wanted  it  to  be 
like  all  the  others." 

"Like  mine,"  she  said,  looking  down  on  him. 

"Nothing  could  be  like  that,"  he  had  the  grace  to 
say,  looking  up  at  her:  "that  was  only  like  the  others 
in  one  thing — that  it  couldn't  last. — What  am  I  think- 
ing of  to  let  you  stand  there?" 

He  got  up  and  led  her  to  the  divan.  They  sat  down 
side  by  side.  She  wanted  to  laugh,  to  sing,  to  scream. 
Here  was  he  sitting  by  her  like  a  lover — holding  her 
hand,  the  first  time  these  two  years,  three  years  nearly 
— his  voice  tender  as  ever.  And  he  was  telling  her 
about  Her. 

"No,"  he  went  on,  burrowing  his  shoulder  comfort- 
ably in  the  cushions,  "it  was  just  the  ordinary  outline 
sketch.  But  it  was  coming  very  nicely.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  be  interested,  and  I  had  taught  myself  al- 
most all  that  was  needed — I  didn't  want  to  marry  her ; 
I  didn't  want  anything  except  those  delicate  delightful 
emotions  that  come  before  one  is  quite,  quite  sure  that 
she — But  you  know." 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "I  know." 

"Then  her  father  interfered,  and  vulgarized  the 
whole  thing.  He's  a  parson — a  weak  little  rat,  but  I 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         237 

was  sorry  for  him.  Then  an  aunt  came  on  the  scene — 
a  most  gentlemanly  lady," — he  laughed  a  little  at  the 
recollection, — "and  I  promised  not  to  go  out  of  my  way 
to  see  Her  again.  It  was  quite  easy.  The  bloom  was 
already  brushed  from  the  adventure.  I  finished  the  pic- 
ture, and  went  to  Brittany  and  forgot  the  whole  silly 
business." 

"There  was  some  one  in  Brittany,  of  course?" 

"Of  course,"  said  he;  "there  always  is.  I  had  a  de- 
lightful summer.  Then  in  October,  sitting  at  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix,  I  saw  her  pass.  It  was  the  same  day  I  saw 
you." 

"Before  or  after  you  saw  me?" 

"After." 

"Then  if  I'd  stopped — if  I'd  made  you  come  for  a 
drive  then  and  there,  you'd  never  have  seen  her?" 

"That's  so,"  said  Vernon;  "and  by  Heaven  I  almost 
wish  you  had!" 

The  wish  was  a  serpent  in  her  heart.  She  said :  "Go 
on." 

And  he  went  on,  and,  warming  to  his  subject,  grew 
eloquent  on  the  events  of  the  winter,  his  emotions,  his 
surmises  as  to  Betty's  emotions,  his  slow  awakening  to 
the  knowledge  that  now,  for  the  first  time — and  so  on 
and  so  forth. 

"You  don't  know  how  I  tried  to  fall  in  love  with  you 
again,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  hand.  "You're  prettier 
than  she  is,  and  cleverer  and  a  thousand  times  more 
adorable.  But  it's  no  good ;  it's  a  sort  of  madness." 

"You  never  were  in  love  with  me." 

"No :  I  don't  think  I  was :  but  I  was  happier  with 
you  than  I  shall  ever  be  with  her  for  all  that.  Talk  of 
the  joy  of  love !  Love  hurts — hurts  damnably.  I  beg 
your  pardon." 


238         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Yes.     I  believe  it's  painful.     Go  on." 

He  went  on.  He  was  enjoying  himself,  now,  thor- 
oughly. 

"And  so,"  the  long  tale  ended,  "when  I  found  she 
had  scruples  about  going  about  with  me  alone — be- 
cause her  father  had  suggested  that  I  was  in  love  with 
her — I — I  let  her  think  that  I  was  engaged  to  you." 

"That  is  too  much !"  she  cried  and  would  have  risen : 
but  he  kept  her  hand  fast. 

"Ah,  don't  be  angry,"  he  pleaded.  "You  see,  I  knew 
you  didn't  care  about  me  a  little  bit:  and  I  never 
thought  you  and  she  would  come  across  each  other." 

"So  you  knew  all  the  time  that  I  didn't  care?"  her 
self-respect  clutched  at  the  spar  he  threw  out. 

"Of  course.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  think — Ah, 
forgive  me  for  letting  her  think  that.  It  bought  me  all 
I  cared  to  ask  for  of  her  time.  She's  so  young,  so  inno- 
cent— she  thought  it  was  quite  all  right  as  long  as  I 
belonged  to  someone  else,  and  couldn't  make  love  to 
her." 

"And  haven't  you?" 

"Never — never  once — since  the  days  at  Long  Barton 
when  it  had  to  be  'made;'  and  even  then  I  only  made 
the  very  beginnings  of  it.  Now — " 

"I  suppose  you've  been  very,  very  happy?" 

"Don't  I  tell  you?  I've  never  been  so  wretched  in 
my  life!  I  despise  myself.  I've  always  made  every- 
thing go  as  I  wanted  it  to  go.  Now  I'm  like  a  leaf  in 
the  wind — Pauvre  feuille  desechee,  don't  you  know. 
And  I  hate  it.  And  I  hate  her  being  here  without  any- 
one to  look  after  her.  A  hundred  times  I've  had  it  on 
the  tip  of  my  pen  to  send  that  doddering  old  Under- 
wood an  anonymous  letter,  telling  him  all  about  it." 

"Underwood?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          239 

"Her  step-father.— Oh,  I  forgot— I  didn't  tell  you." 
He  proceeded  to  tell  her  Betty's  secret,  the  death  of 
Madame  Gautier  and  Betty's  bid  for  freedom. 

"I  see/*  she  said  slowly.  "Well,  there's  no  great 
harm  done.  But  I  wish  you'd  trusted  me  before.  You 
wanted  to  know,  at  the  beginning  of  this  remarkable 
interview,"  she  laughed  rather  forlornly,  "what  I  had 
told  Miss  Desmond.  Well,  I  went  to  see  her,  and  when 
she  told  me  that  you'd  told  her  you  were  engaged  to 
me,  I — I  just  acted  the  jealous  a  little  bit.  I  thought 
I  was  helping  you — playing  up  to  you.  I  suppose  I 
overdid  it.  I'm  sorry." 

"The  question  is,"  said  he  anxiously,  "whether  she'll 
forgive  me  for  that  lie.  She's  most  awfully  straight, 
you  know." 

"She  seems  to  have  lied  herself,"  Lady  St.  Craye 
could  not  help  saying. 

"Ah,  yes — but  only  to  her  father." 

"That  hardly  counts,  you  think?" 

"It's  not  the  same  thing  as  lying  to  the  person  you 
love.  I  wish — I  wonder  whether  you'd  mind  if  I  never 
told  her  it  was  a  lie?  Couldn't  I  tell  her  that  we  were 
engaged  but  you've  broken  it  off?  That  you  found 
you  liked  Temple  better,  or  something?" 

She  gasped  before  the  sudden  vision  of  the  naked 
gigantic  egotism  of  a  man  in  love. 

"You  can  tell  her  what  you  like,"  she  said  wearily: 
"a  lie  or  two  more  or  less — what  does  it  matter?" 

"I  don't  want  to  lie  to  her,"  said  Vernon.  "I  hate 
to.  But  she'd  never  understand  the  truth." 

"You  think  7  understand  ?  It  is  the  truth  you've  been 
telling  me?" 

He  laughed.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  told  so  much 
truth  in  all  my  life." 


240         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"And  you've  thoroughly  enjoyed  it!  You  always 
did  enjoy  new  sensations !" 

"Ah,  don't  sneer  at  me.  You  don't  understand — not 
quite.  Everything's  changed.  I  really  do  feel  as 
though  I'd  been  born  again.  The  point  of  view  has 
shifted — and  so  suddenly,  so  completely.  It's  a  new 
Heaven  and  a  new  earth.  But  the  new  earth's  not  com- 
fortable, and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  get  the  new 
Heaven.  But  you'll  help  me — you'll  advise  me?  Do 
you  think  I  ought  to  tell  her  at  once  ?  You  see,  she's  so 
different  from  other  girls — she's — " 

"She  isn't,"  Lady  St.  Craye  interrupted,  "except 
that  she's  the  one  you  love;  she's  not  a  bit  different 
from  other  girls.  No  girl's  different  from  other  girls." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  her,"  he  said.  "You  see,  she's 
so  young  and  brave  and  true  and — what  is  it — Why — " 

Lady  St.  Craye  had  rested  her  head  against  his  coat- 
sleeve  and  he  knew  that  she  was  crying. 

"What  is  it?    My  dear,  don't — you  musn't  cry." 

"I'm  not. — At  least  I'm  very  tired." 

"Brute  that  I  am!"  he  said  with  late  compunction. 
"And  I've  been  worrying  you  with  all  my  silly  affairs. 
Cheer  up, — and  smile  at  me  before  I  go!  Of  course 
you're  tired!" 

His  hand  on  her  soft  hair  held  her  head  against  his 
arm. 

"No,"  she  said  suddenly,  "it  isn't  that  I'm  tired, 
really.  You've  told  the  truth, — why  shouldn't  I?" 
Vernon  instantly  and  deeply  regretted  the  lapse. 

"You're  really  going  to  marry  the  girl?  You  mean 
it?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  help  you.  I'll  do  everything  I  can  for 
you." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         241 

"You're  a  dear,"  he  said  kindly.  "You  always 
were." 

"I'll  be  your  true  friend — oh,  yes,  I  will !  Because 
I  love  you,  Eustace.  I've  always  loved  you — I  always 
shall.  It  can't  spoil  anything  now  to  tell  you,  because 
everything  is  spoilt.  She'll  never  love  you  like  I  do. 
Nobody  ever  will." 

"You're  tired.  I've  bothered  you.  You're  saying 
this  just  to — because — " 

"I'm  saying  it  because  it's  true.  Why  should  you 
be  the  only  one  to  speak  the  truth?  Oh,  Eustace — 
when  you  pretended  to  think  I  didn't  care,  two  years 
ago,  I  was  too  proud  to  speak  the  truth  then.  I'm  not 
proud  now  any  more.  Go  away.  I  wish  I'd  never  seen 
you;  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born." 

"Yes,  dear,  yes.  I'll  go"  he  said,  and  rose.  She 
buried  her  face  in  the  cushion  where  his  shoulder  had 
been. 

He  was  looking  round  for  his  hat  and  gloves — more 
uncomfortable  than  he  ever  remembered  to  have  been. 

As  he  reached  the  door  she  sprang  up,  and  he  heard 
the  silken  swish  of  her  gray  gown  coming  towards  him. 

"Say  good-night,"  she  pleaded.  "Oh,  Eustace,  kiss 
me  again — kindly,  not  like  last  time." 

He  met  her  half-way,  took  her.  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  forehead  very  gently,  very  tenderly. 

"My  dearest  Jasmine  lady,"  he  said,  "  it  sounds  an 
impertinence  and  I  daresay  you  won't  believe  it,  but  I 
was  never  so  sorry  in  my  life  as  I  am  now.  I'm  a 
beast,  and  I  don't  deserve  to  live.  Think  what  a  beast 
I  am — and  try  to  hate  me." 

She  clung  to  him  and  laid  her  wet  cheek  against  his. 
Then  her  lips  implored  his  lips.  There  was  a  long 


242          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

silence.  It  was  she — she  was  always  glad  of  that — • 
who  at  last  found  her  courage,  and  drew  back. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be  quite  sane  to-mor- 
row. And  then  I'll  help  you." 

When  he  got  out  into  the  street  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  He  hailed  a  car- 
riage. 

"Fifty-seven  Boulevard  Montparnasse,"  he  said. 

He  could  still  feel  Lady  St.  Craye's  wet  cheek 
against  his  own.  The  despairing  passion  of  her  last 
kisses  had  thrilled  him  through  and  through. 

He  wanted  to  efface  the  mark  of  those  kisses.  He 
would  not  be  haunted  all  night  by  any  lips  but  Betty's. 

He  had  never  called  at  her  rooms  in  the  evening. 
He  had  been  careful  for  her  in  that.  Even  now  as  he 
rang  the  bell  he  was  careful,  and  when  the  latch  clicked 
and  the  door  was  opened  a  cautious  inch  he  was  ready, 
as  he  entered,  to  call  out,  in  passing  the  concierge's  door 
not  Miss  Desmond's  name,  but  the  name  of  the  Cana- 
dian artist  who  occupied  the  studio  on  the  top  floor. 

He  went  softly  up  the  stairs  and  stood  listening  out- 
side Betty's  door.  Then  he  knocked  gently.  No  one 
answered.  Nothing  stirred  inside. 

"She  may  be  out,"  he  told  himself.  "I'll  wait  a 
bit." 

At  the  same  time  he  tapped  again;  and  this  time 
beyond  the  door  something  did  stir. 

Then  came  Betty's  voice: 

"Qui  est  la?" 

"It's  me — Vernon.    May  I  come  in  ?" 

A  moment's  pause.    Then : 

"No.  You  can't  possibly.  Is  anything  the  mat- 
ter?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         243 

"No — oh,  no,  but  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you. 
May  I  come  to-morrow  early?" 

"You're  sure  there's  nothing  wrong?  At  home  or 
anything?  You  haven't  come  to  break  anything  to 
me?" 

"No — no ;  it's  only  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

He  began  to  feel  a  fool,  with  his  guarded  whispers 
through  a  locked  door. 

"Then  come  at  twelve,"  said  Betty  in  the  tones  of 
finality.  "Good-night." 

He  heard  an  inner  door  close,  and  went  slowly  away. 
He  walked  a  long  way  that  night.  It  was  not  till  he 
was  back  in  his  rooms  and  had  lighted  his  candle  and 
wound  up  his  watch  that  Lady  St.  Craye's  kisses  began 
to  haunt  him  in  good  earnest,  as  he  had  known  they 

would. 

***** 

Lady  St.  Craye,  left  alone,  dried  her  eyes  and  set  to 
work,  with  heart  still  beating  wildly  to  look  about  her 
at  the  ruins  of  her  world. 

The  room  was  quiet  with  the  horrible  quiet  of  a  death 
chamber.  And  yet  his  voice  still  echoed  in  it.  Only  a 
moment  ago  she  had  been  in  his  arms,  as  she  had  never 
hoped  to  be  again — more — as  she  had  never  been  be- 
fore. 

"He  would  have  loved  me  now,"  she  told  herself,  "if 
it  hadn't  been  for  that  girl.  He  didn't  love  me  before. 
He  was  only  playing  at  love.  He  didn't  know  what 
love  was.  But  he  knows  now.  And  it's  all  too  late!" 

But  was  it? 

A  word  to  Betty — and — 

"But  you  promised  to  help  him." 

"That  was  before  he  kissed  me." 

"But  a  promise  is  a  promise." 


244         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Yes, — and  your  life's  your  life.  You'll  never  have 
another." 

She  stood  still,  her  hands  hanging  by  her  sides — > 
clenched  hands  that  the  rings  bit  into. 

"He  will  go  to  her  early  to-morrow.  And  she'll 
accept  him,  of  course.  She's  never  seen  anyone  else, 
the  little  fool." 

She  knew  that  she  herself  would  have  taken  him, 
would  have  chosen  him  as  the  chief  among  ten  thou- 
sand. 

"She  could  have  Temple.  She'd  be  much  happier 
with  Temple.  She  and  Eustace  would  make  each  other 
wretched.  She'd  never  understand  him,  and  he'd  be 
tired  of  her  in  a  week." 

She  had  turned  up  the  electric  lights  now,  at  her 
toilet  table,  and  was  pulling  the  pins  out  of  her  ruffled 
hair. 

"And  he'd  never  care  about  her  children.  And 
they'd  be  ugly  little  horrors." 

She  was  twisting  her  hair  up  quickly  and  firmly. 

"I  have  a  right  to  live  my  own  life,"  she  said,  just  as 
Betty  had  said  six  months  before.  "Why  am  I  to  sac- 
rifice everything  to  her — especially  when  I  don't  sup- 
pose she  cares — and  now  that  I  know  I  could  get  him 
if  she  were  out  of  the  way?" 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  silver-framed  mirror  and 
laughed. 

"And  you  always  thought  yourself  a  proud  woman !" 

Suddenly  she  dropped  the  brush ;  it  rattled  and  spun 
on  the  polished  floor. 

She  stamped  her  foot. 

"That  settles  it !"  she  said.  For  in  that  instant  she 
perceived  quite  clearly  and  without  mistake  that  Ver- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         245 

non's  attitude  had  been  a  parti-pris :  that  he  had  thrown 
himself  on  her  pity  of  set  purpose,  with  an  end  to  gain. 

"Laughing  at  me  all  the  time  too,  of  course !  And  I 
thought  I  understood  him.  Well,  I  don't  misunder- 
stand him  for  long,  anyway,"  she  said,  and  picked  up 
the  hair  brush. 

"You  silly  fool,"  she  said  to  the  woman  in  the  glass. 

And  now  she  was  fully  dressed — in  long  light  coat 
and  a  hat  with,  as  usual,  violets  in  it.  She  paused  a 
moment  before  her  writing-table,  turned  up  its  light, 
turned  it  down  again. 

"No,"  she  said,  "one  doesn't  write  anonymous  let- 
ters. Besides  it  would  be  too  late.  He'll  see  her  tomor- 
row early — early." 

The  door  of  the  flat  banged  behind  her  as  it  had 
banged  behind  Vernon  half  an  hour  before.  Like  him, 
ghe  called  a  carriage,  and  on  her  lips  too,  as  the  chill 
April  air  caressed  them,  was  the  sense  of  kisses. 

And  she,  too,  gave  to  the  coachman  the  address : 

Fifty-seven  Boulevard  Montparnasse. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  TRUTH  WITH  A  VENGEANCE. 

In  those  three  weeks  whose  meetings  with  Vernon 
had  been  so  lacking  in  charm  there  had  been  other 
meetings  for  Betty,  and  in  these  charm  had  not  been  to 
seek.  But  it  was  the  charm  of  restful,  pleasant  com- 
panionship illuminated  by  a  growing  certainty  that 
Mr.  Temple  admired  her  very  much,  that  he  liked  her 
very  much,  that  he  did  not  think  her  untidy  and  coun- 
trified and  ill-dressed,  and  all  the  things  she  had  felt 
herself  to  be  that  night  when  Lady  St.  Craye  and  her 
furs  had  rustled  up  the  staircase  at  Thirion's.  And  she 
had  dined  with  Mr.  Temple  and  lunched  with  Mr. 
Temple,  and  there  had  been  an  afternoon  at  St.  Cloud, 
and  a  day  at  Versailles.  Miss  Voscoe  and  some  of  the 
other  students  had  been  in  the  party,  but  not  of  it  as 
far  as  Betty  was  concerned.  She  had  talked  to  Temple 
all  the  time. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you've  taken  my  advice,"  said  Miss 
Voscoe ;  "only  you  do  go  at  things  so — like  a  bull  at  a 
gate.  A  month  ago  it  was  all  that  ruffian  Vernon. 
Now  it's  all  Mr.  Go-to-Hell.  Why  not  have  a  change? 
Try  a  Pole  or  a  German." 

But  Betty  declined  to  try  a  Pole  or  a  German. 

What  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  persuade  herself  that 
she  liked  Temple  as  much  as  she  liked  Vernon,  and, 
further,  that  she  did  not  care  a  straw  for  either. 

Of  course  it  is  very  wrong  indeed  to  talk  pleasantly 
246 


247 

with  a  young  man  when  you  think  you  know  that  he 
might,  just  possibly,  be  falling  in  love  with  you.  But 
then  it  is  very  interesting,  too.  To  be  loved,  even  by 
the  wrong  person,  seems  in  youth's  selfish  eyes  to  light 
up  the  world  as  the  candle  lights  the  Japanese  lantern. 
And  besides,  after  all,  one  can't  be  sure.  And  it  is  not 
maidenly  to  say  "No,"  even  by  the  vaguest  movements 
of  retreat,  to  a  question  that  has  not  been  asked  and 
perhaps  never  will  be. 

And  when  she  was  talking  to  Temple  she  was  not 
thinking  so  much  of  Vernon,  and  of  her  unselfish 
friendship  for  him,  and  the  depth  of  her  hope  that  he 
really  would  be  happy  with  that  woman. 

So  that  it  was  with  quite  a  sick  feeling  that  her  days 
had  been  robbed  of  something  that  made  them  easier 
to  live,  if  not  quite  worth  living,  that  she  read  and  re- 
read the  letter  that  she  found  waiting  for  her  after  that 
last  unsuccessful  dinner  with  the  man  whom  Temple 
helped  her  to  forget. 

You  will  see  by  the  letter  what  progress  friendship 
can  make  in  a  month  between  a  young  man  and  woman, 
even  when  each  is  half  in  love  with  some  one  else. 

"Sweet  friend,"  said  the  letter:  "This  is  to  say 
good-bye  for  a  little  while.  But  you  will  think  of  me 
when  I  am  away,  won't  you?  I  am  going  into  the 
country  to  make  some  sketches  and  to  think.  I  don't 
believe  it  is  possible  for  English  people  to  think  in 
Paris.  And  I  have  things  to  think  over  that  won't  let 
themselves  be  thought  over  quietly  here.  And  I  want 
to  see  the  Spring.  I  won't  ask  you  to  write  to  me,  be- 
cause I  want  to  be  quite  alone,  and  not  to  have  even 
a  word  from  my  sweet  and  dear  friend.  I  hope  youf 
work  will  go  well.  Yours, 

"ROBERT  TEMPLE/' 


248         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Betty,  in  bed,  was  re-reading  this  when  Vernon's 
knock  came  at  her  door.  She  spoke  to  him  through  the 
door  with  the  letter  in  her  hand.  And  her  real  thought 
when  she  asked  him  if  he  had  come  to  break  bad  news 
was  that  something  had  happened  to  Temple. 

She  went  back  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Try  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  keep  away  the  wonder — what 
could  Vernon  have  had  to  say  that  wanted  so  badly  to 
get  itself  said?  She  hid  her  eyes  and  would  not  look 
in  the  face  of  her  hope.  There  had  been  a  tone  in  his 
voice  as  he  whispered  on  the  other  side  of  that  stupid 
door,  a  tone  she  had  not  heard  since  Long  Barton. 

Oh,  why  had  she  gone  to  bed  early  that  night  of  all 
nights  ?  She  would  never  go  to  bed  early  again  as  long 
as  she  lived ! 

What? — No,  impossible!  Yes.  Another  knock  at 
her  door.  She  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  stood  listening. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Vernon  had  come  back. 
After  all  what  he  had  to  say  would  not  keep  till  morn- 
ing. A  wild  idea  of  dressing  and  letting  him  in  was 
sternly  dismissed.  For  one  thing,  at  topmost  speed,  it 
took  twenty  minutes  to  dress.  He  would  not  wait 
twenty  minutes.  Another  knock. 

She  threw  on  her  dressing  gown  and  ran  along  her 
little  passage — and  stooped  to  the  key-hole  just  as  an~ 
other  tap,  discreet  but  insistent,  rang  on  the  door  panel. 

"Go  away,"  she  said  low  and  earnestly.  "I  can't 
talk  to  you  to-night  whatever  it  is.  It  must  wait  till  the 
morning." 

"It's  I,"  said  the  very  last  voice  in  all  Paris  that  she 
expected  to  hear,  "it's  Lady  St.  Craye. — Won't  you  let 
me  in?" 

"Are  you  alone?"  said  Betty. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         249 

"Of  course  I'm  alone.  It's  most  important.  Do  open 
the  door." 

The  door  was  slowly  opened.  The  visitor  rustled 
through,  and  Betty  shut  the  door.  Then  she  followed 
Lady  St.  Craye  into  the  sitting-room,  lighted  the  lamp, 
drew  the  curtain  across  the  clear  April  night,  and  stood 
looking  enquiry — and  not  looking  it  kindly.  Her  lips 
were  set  in  a  hard  line  and  she  was  frowning. 

She  waited  for  the  other  to  speak,  but  after  all  it  was 
she  who  broke  the  silence. 

"Well,"  'she  said,  "what  do  you  want  now?" 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  begin,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye 
with  great  truth. 

"I  should  think  not !"  said  Betty.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  disagreeable,  but  I  can't  think  of  anything  that  gives 
you  the  right  to  come  and  knock  me  up  like  this  in  the 
middle  of  the  night." 

"It's  only  just  past  eleven,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye. 
And  there  was  another  silence.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  A  dozen  openings  suggested  themselves,  and 
were  instantly  rejected.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  she 
knew  exactly  what  to  say,  what  to  do.  That  move  of 
Vernon's — it  was  a  good  one,  a  move  too  often  neg- 
lected in  this  cynical  world,  but  always  successful  on 
the  stage. 

"May  I  sit  down?"  she  asked  forlornly. 

Betty,  rather  roughly,  pushed  forward  a  chair. 

Lady  St.  Craye  sank  into  it,  looked  full  at  Betty  for 
a  long  minute;  and  by  the  lamp's  yellow  light  Betty 
saw  the  tears  rise,  brim  over  and  fall  from  the  other 
woman's  lashes.  Then  Lady  St.  Craye  pulled  out  her 
handkerchief  and  began  to  cry  in  good  earnest. 

It  was  quite  easy. 

At  first  Betty  looked  on  in  cold  contempt.    Lady  St. 


250         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Craye  had  counted  on  that:  she  let  herself  go,  wholly. 
If  it  ended  in  hysterics  so  much  the  more  impressive. 
She  thought  of  Vernon,  of  all  the  hopes  of  these 
months,  of  the  downfall  of  them — everything  that 
should  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  stop  crying. 

"Don't  distress  yourself,"  said  Betty,  very  chill  and 
distant. 

"Can  you — can  you  lend  me  a  handkerchief?"  said 
the  other  unexpectedly,  screwing  up  her  own  drenched 
cambric  in  her  hand. 

Betty  fetched  a  handkerchief. 

"I  haven't  any   scent,"  she  said.    "I'm  sorry." 

That  nearly  dried  the  tears — but  not  quite :  Lady  St. 
Craye  was  a  persevering  woman. 

Betty  watching  her,  slowly  melted,  just  as  the  other 
knew  she  would.  She  put  her  hand  at  last  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  light  coat. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "don't  cry  so.  I'm  sure  there's 
nothing  to  be  so  upset  about — " 

Then  came  to  her  sharp  as  any  knife,  the  thought 
of  what  there  might  be. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  anyone?  There  hasn't 
been  an  accident  or  anything?" 

The  other,  still  speechless,  conveyed  "No." 

"Don't,"  said  Betty  again.  And  slowly  and  very 
artistically  the  flood  was  abated.  Lady  St.  Craye  was 
almost  calm,  though  still  her  breath  caught  now  and 
then  in  little  broken  sighs. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "so  ashamed. — Breaking 
down  like  this.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  as 
unhappy  as  I  am." 

Betty  thought  she  did.  We  all  think  we  do,  in  the 
presence  of  any  grief  not  our  own. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         251 

"Can  I  do  anything?"  She  spoke  much  more  kindly 
than  she  had  expected  to  speak. 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you  everything?  The  whole 
truth?" 

"Of  course  if  you  want  to,  but — " 

"Then  do  sit  down — and  oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me, 
I  am  so  wretched.  Just  now  you  thought  something 
had  happened  to  Mr.  Vernon.  Will  you  just  tell  me 
one  thing? — Do  you  love  him?" 

"You've  no  right  to  ask  me  that." 

"I  know  I  haven't.  Well,  I'll  trust  you — though  you 
don't  trust  me.  I'll  tell  you  everything.  Two  years 
ago  Mr.  Vernon  and  I  were  engaged." 

This  was  not  true;  but  it  took  less  time  to  tell  than 
the  truth  would  have  taken,  and  sounded  better. 

"We  were  engaged,  and  I  was  very  fond  of  him. 
But  he — you  know  what  he  is  about  w'omen?" 

"No,"  said  Betty  steadily.  "I  don't  want  to  hear 
anything  about  him." 

"But  you  must. — He  is — I  don't  know  how  to  put  it. 
There's  always  some  woman  besides  the  One  with 
him.  I  understand  that  now;  I  didn't  then.  I  don't 
think  he  can  help  it.  It's  his  temperament." 

"I  see,"  said  Betty  evenly.  Her  hands  and  feet  were 
very  cold.  She  was  astonished  to  find  how  little  moved 
she  was  in  this  interview  whose  end  she  foresaw  so  very 
plainly. 

"Yes,  and  there  was  a  girl  at  that  time — he  was 
always  about  with  her.  And  I  made  him  scenes — 
always  a  most  stupid  thing  to  do  with  a  man,  you 
know;  and  at  last  I  said  he  must  give  her  up,  or  give 
me  up.  And  he  gave  me  up.  And  I  was  too  proud  to 
let  him  think  I  cared — and  just  to  show  him  how  little 
I  cared  I  married  Sir  Harry  St.  Craye.  I  might  just 


252         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

as  well  have  let  it  alone.  He  never  even  heard  I  had 
been  married  till  last  October !  And  then  it  was  I  who 
told  him.  My  husband  was  a  brute,  and  I'm  thankful 
to  say  he  didn't  live  long.  You're  very  much  shocked, 
I'm  afraid?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Betty,  who  was,  rather. 

"Well,  then  I  met  Him  again,  and  we  got  engaged 
again,  as  he  told  you.  And  again  there  was  a  girl — oh, 
and  another  woman  besides.  But  this  time  I  tried  to 
bear  it — you  know  I  did  try  not  to  be  jealous  of  you." 

"'You  had  no  cause,"  said  Betty. 

"Well,  I  thought  I  had.  That  hurts  just  as  much. 
And  what's  the  end  of  it  all — all  my  patience  and  try- 
ing not  to  see  things,  and  letting  him  have  his  o\vn 
way?  He  came  to  me  to-night  and  begged  me  to 
release  him  from  his  engagement,  because — oh,  he  was 
beautifully  candid — because  he  meant  to  marry  you." 

Betty's  heart  gave  a  jump. 

"He  seems  to  have  been  very  sure  of  me/'  she  said 
loftily. 

"No,  no;  he's  not  a  hairdresser's  apprentice — to  tell 
one  woman  that  he's  sure  of  another.  He  said:  'I 
mean  to  marry  Miss  Desmond  if  she'll  have  me.'  " 

"How  kind  of  him!" 

"I  wish  you'd  heard  the  way  he  spoke  of  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear." 

"/  had  to.  And  I've  released  him.  And  now  I've 
come  to  you.  I  was  proud  two  years  ago.  I'm  not 
proud  now,  I  don't  care  what  I  do.  I'll  kneel  down 
at  your  feet  and  pray  to  you  as  if  you  were  God  not  to 
take  him  away  from  me.  And  if  you  love  him  it'll  all 
be  no  good.  I  know  that." 

"But — supposing  I  weren't  here — do  you  think  you 
could  get  him  back?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         253 

"I  know  I  could.  Unless  of  course  you  were  to  tell 
him  I'd  been  here  to-night.  I  should  have  no  chance 
after  that — naturally.  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  say  to 
you.  You're  very  young;  you'll  find  someone  else,  a 
better  man.  He's  not  a  good  man.  There's  a  girl  at 
Montmartre  at  this  very  moment — a  girl  he's  set  up  in 
a  restaurant.  He  goes  to  see  her.  You'd  never  stand 
that  sort  of  thing.  I  know  the  sort  of  girl  you  are. 
And  you're  quite  right.  But  I've  got  beyond  that.  I 
don't  care  what  he  is,  I  don't  care  what  he  does.  I 
understand  him.  I  can  make  allowances  for  him.  I'm 
his  real  mate.  I  could  make  him  happy.  You  never 
would — you're  too  good.  Ever  since  I  first  met  him 
I've  thought  of  nothing  else,  cared  for  nothing  else.  If 
he  whistled  to  me  I'd  give  up  everything  else,  every- 
thing, and  follow  him  barefoot  round  the  world." 

"I  heard  someone  say  that  in  a  play  once,"  said  Betty 
musing. 

"So  did  I,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  very  sharply — "but 
it's  true  for  all  that.  Well — you  can  do  as  you  like." 

"Of  course  I  can,"  said  Betty. 

"I've  done  all  I  can  now.  I've  said  everything  there 
is  to  say.  And  if  you  love  him  as  I  love  him  every  word 
I've  said  won't  make  a  scrap  of  difference.  I  know 
that  well  enough.  What  I  want  to  know  is — do  you 
love  him?" 

The  scene  had  been  set  deliberately.  But  the  passion 
that  spoke  in  it  was  not  assumed.  Betty  felt  young, 
school-girlish,  awkward  in  the  presence  of  this  love — 
so  different  from  her  own  timid  dreams.  The  emotion 
of  the  other  woman  had  softened  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"If  you  don't  know,  you  don't  love  him. — At  least 
'don't  see  him  till  you're  sure.  You'll  do  that?  As  long 


254         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

as  he's  not  married  to  anyone,  there's  just  a  chance  that 
he  may  love  me  again.  Won't  you  have  pity  ?  Won't 
you  go  away  like  that  sensible  young  man  Temple? 
Mr.  Vernon  told  me  he  was  going  into  the  country  to 
decide  which  of  the  two  women  he  likes  best  is  the  one 
•he  really  likes  best !  Won't  you  do  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Betty  slowly,  "I'll  do  that.  Look  here, 
I  am  most  awfully  sorry,  but  I  don't  know — I  can't 
think  to-night.  I'll  go  right  away — I  won't  see  him 
to-morrow.  Oh,  no.  I  can't  come  between  you  and 
the  man  you're  engaged  to,"  her  thoughts  were  clear- 
ing themselves  as  she  spoke.  "Of  course  I  knew  you 
•were  engaged  to  him.  But  I  never  thought.  At  least 
— Yes.  I'll  go  away  the  first  thing  to-morrow." 

"You  are  very,  very  good,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  and 
she  meant  it. 

"But  I  don't  know  where  to  go.  Tell  me  where  to 
go." 

"Can't  you  go  home?" 

"No :  I  won't.    That's  too  much." 

"Go  somewhere  and  sketch." 

"Yes, — but  where?"  said  poor  Betty  impatiently. 

"Go  to  Grez,"  said  the  other,  not  without  second 
thoughts.  "It's  a  lovely  place — close  to  Fontainebleau 
— Hotel  Chevillon.  I'll  write  it  down  for  you. — Old 
Madame  Chevillon's  a  darling.  She'll  look  after  you. 
It  is  good  of  you  to  forgive  me  for  everything.  I'm 
afraid  I  was  a  cat  to  you." 

"No,"  said  Betty,  "it  was  right  and  brave  of  you  to 
tell  me  the  whole  truth.  Oh,  truth's  the  only  thing 
that's  any  good !" 

Lady  St.  Craye  also  thought  it  a  useful  thing — in 
moderation.  She  rose. 

"I'll  never  forget  what  you're  doing  for   me,"   she 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         255 

said.  "You're  a  girl  in  thousand.  Look  here,  my 
dear :  I'm  not  blind.  Don't  think  I  don't  value  what 
you're  doing.  You  cared  for  him  in  England  a  little, — 
and  you  care  a  little  now.  And  everything  I've  said  to- 
night has  hurt  you  hatefully.  And  you  didn't  know 
you  cared.  You  thought  it  was  friendship,  didn't  you 
— till  you  thought  I'd  come  to  tell  you  that  something 
had  happened  to  him.  And  then  you  knew.  I'm  going 
to  accept  your  sacrifice.  I've  got  to.  I  can't  live  if  I 
don't.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  don't  know 
what  a  sacrifice  it  is.  I  know  better  than  you  do — at 
this  moment.  No — don't  say  anything.  I  don't  want 
to  force  your  confidence.  But  I  do  understand." 

"I  wish  everything  was  different,"  said  Betty. 

"Yes.  You're  thinking,  aren't  you,  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Mr.  Vernon  you'd  rather  have  liked  me? 
And  I  know  now  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  should 
have  been  very  fond  of  you.  And  even  as  it  is — " 

She  put  her  arms  round  Betty  and  spoke  close  to  her 
ear. 

"You're  doing  more  for  me  than  anyone  has  ever 
done  for  me  in  my  life,"  she  said — "more  than  I'd  do 
for  you  or  any  woman.  And  I  love  you  for  it.  Dear 
brave  little  girl.  I  hope  it  isn't  going  to  hurt  very  badly. 
I  love  you  for  it — and  I'll  never  forget  it  to  the  day  I 
die.  Kiss  me  and  try  to  forgive  me." 

The  two  clung  together  for  an  instant. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  in  quite  a  different 
voice.  "I'm  sorry  I  made  a  scene.  But,  really,  some- 
times I  believe  one  isn't  quite  sane.  Let  me  write  the 
Grez  address.  I  wish  I  could  think  of  any  set  of  cir- 
cumstances in  which  you'd  be  pleased  to  see  me  again." 

"I'll  pack  to-night,"  said  Betty.  "I  hope  you'll  be 
happy  anyway.  Do  you  know  I  think  I  have  been 


256         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

hating  you  rather  badly  without  quite  knowing  it." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  said  the  other  heartily,  "but 
you  don't  now.  Of  course  you  won't  leave  your  address 
here?  If  you  do  that  you  might  as  well  not  go  away 
at  all!" 

"I'm  not  quite  a  fool,"  said  Betty. 
"No,"  said  the  other  with  a  sigh,  "it's  I  that  am  the 
fool.     You're — No,  I  won't  say  what  you  are.     But — • 
Well.     Good  night,  dear.     Try  not  to  hate  me  again 
when  you  come  to  think  it  all  over  quietly." 


CHAPTER  XX. 
WAKING-UP  TIME. 

Dear  Mr.  Vernon.  This  is  to  thank  you  very  much 
for  all  your  help  and  criticism  of  my  work,  and  to  say 
good-bye.  I  am  called  away  quite  suddenly,  so  I  can't 
thank  you  in  person,  but  I  shall  never  forget  your  kind- 
ness. Please  remember  me  to  Lady  St.  Craye.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  be  married  quite  soon  now.  And  I  am 
sure  you  will  both  be  very  happy. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 
ELIZABETH  DESMOND. 

This  was  the  letter  that  Vernon  read  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  arch  by  the  concierge's  window.  The 
concierge  had  hailed  him  as  he  hurried  through  to 
climb  the  wide  shallow  stairs  and  to  keep  his  appoint- 
ment with  Betty  when  she  should  leave  the  atelier. 

"But  yes,  Mademoiselle  had  departed  this  morning 
at  nine  o'clock.  To  which  station?  To  the  Gare  St. 
Lazare.  Yes — Mademoiselle  had  charged  her  to  remit 
the  billet  to  Monsieur.  No,  Mademoiselle  had  not  left 
any  address.  But  perhaps  chez  Madame  Bianchi?" 

But  chez  Madame  Bianchi  there  was  no  further 
news.  The  so  amiable  Mademoiselle  Desmond  had 
paid  her  account,  had  embraced  Madame,  and — Voila ! 
she  was  gone.  One  divined  that  she  had  been  called 
suddenly  to  return  to  the  family  roof.  A  sudden  ill- 
ness of  Monsieur  her  father  without  doubt. 

257 


258         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Could  some  faint  jasmine  memory  have  lingered  on 
the  staircase?  Or  was  it  some  subtler  echo  of  Lady  St. 
Craye's  personality  that  clung  there  ?  Abruptly,  as  he 
passed  Betty's  door,  the  suspicion  stung  him.  Had  the 
Jasmine  lady  had  any  hand  in  this  sudden  departure? 

"Pooh — nonsense!"  he  said.  But  all  the  same  he 
paused  at  the  concierge's  window. 

"I  am  desolated  to  have  deranged  Madame," — gold 
coin  changed  hands. — "A  lady  came  to  see  Mademoi- 
selle this  morning,  is  it  not?" 

"No,  no  lady  had  visited  Mademoiselle  to-day:  no 
one  at  all  in  effect." 

"Nor  last  night — very  late  ?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  the  woman  answered  meaningly; 
"no  visitor  came  in  last  night  except  Monsieur  himself 
and  he  came,  not  to  see  Mademoiselle,  that  understands 
itself,  but  to  see  Monsieur  Beauchesne  au  troisieme. 
No — I  am  quite  sure — I  never  deceive  myself.  And 
Mademoiselle  has  had  no  letters  since  three  days. 
Thanks  a  thousand  times,  Monsieur.  Good  morn- 
ing." 

She  locked  up  the  gold  piece  in  the  little  drawer 
where  already  lay  the  hundred  franc  note  that  Lady 
St.  Craye  had  given  her  at  six  o'clock  that  morning. 

"And  there'll  be  another  fifty  from  her  next  month," 
she  chuckled.  "The  good  God  be  blessed  for  intrigues ! 
Without  intrigues  what  would  become  of  us  poor  con- 
cierges ?" 

For  Vernon  Paris  was  empty — the  spring  sunshine 
positively  distasteful.  He  did  what  he  could;  he  en- 
quired at  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  describing  Betty  with 
careful  detail  that  brought  smiles  to  the  lips  of  the 
employes.  He  would  not  call  on  Miss  Voscoe.  He 
made  himself  wait  till  the  Sketch  Club  afternoon — made 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         259 

himself  wait,  indeed,  till  all  the  sketches  were  criticised 
— till  the  last  cup  of  tea  was  swallowed,  or  left  to  cool 
— the  last  cake  munched — the  last  student's  footfall 
had  died  away  on  the  stairs,  and  he  and  Miss  Voscoe 
were  alone  among  the  scattered  tea-cups,  blackened 
bread-crumbs  and  torn  paper. 

Then  he  put  his  question.  Miss  Voscoe  knew  noth- 
ing. Guessed  Miss  Desmond  knew  her  own  business 
best. 

"But  she's  so  young,"  said  Vernon ;  "anything  might 
have  happened  to  her." 

"I  reckon  she's  safe  enough — where  she  is,"  said 
Miss  Voscoe  with  intention. 

"But  haven't  you  any  idea  why  she's  gone?"  he 
asked,  not  at  all  expecting  any  answer  but  "Not  the 
least." 

But  Miss  Voscoe  said : 

"I  have  a  quite  first-class  idea  and  so  have  you." 

He  could  but  beg  her  pardon  interrogatively. 

"Oh,  you  know  well  enough,"  said  she.  "She'd  got 
to  go.  And  it  was  up  to  her  to  do  it  right  now,  I 
guess." 

Vernon  had  to  ask  why. 

"Well,  you  being  engaged  to  another  girl,  don't  you 
surmise  it  might  kind  of  come  home  to  her  there  were 
healthier  spots  for  you  than  the  end  of  her  apron 
strings?  Maybe  she  thought  the  other  lady's  apron 
strings  'ud  be  suffering  for  a  little  show?" 

"I'm  not  engaged,"  said  Vernon  shortly. 

"Then  it's  time  you  were,"  the  answer  came  with 
equal  shortness.  "You'll  pardon  me  making  this  a  heart- 
to-heart  talk — and  anyway  it's  no  funeral  of  mine. 
But  she's  the  loveliest  girl  and  I  right  down  like  her. 
So  you  take  it  from  me.  That  F.  F.  V.  Lady  with  the 


260         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

violets — Oh,  don't  pretend  you  don't  know  who  I 
mean — the  one  you're  always  about  with  when  you 
aren't  with  Betty.  She's  your  ticket.  Betty's  not. 
Your  friend's  her  style.  You  pass,  this  hand,  and  give 
the  girl  a  chance." 

"I  really  don't  understand — " 

"I  bet  you  do,"  she  interrupted  with  conviction. 
"I've  sized  you  up  right  enough,  Mr.  Vernon.  You're 
no  fool.  If  you've  discontinued  your  engagement 
Betty  doesn't  know  it.  Nor  she  shan't  from  me.  And 
one  of  these  next  days  it'll  be  borne  in  on  your  friend 
that  she's  the  girl  of  his  life — and  when  he  meets  her 
again  he'll  get  her  to  see  it  his  way.  Don't  you  spoil 
the  day's  fishing." 

Vernon  laughed. 

"You  have  all  the  imagination  of  the  greatest  nation 
in  the  world,  Miss  Voscoe,"  he  said.  "Thank  you. 
These  straight  talks  to  young  men  are  the  salt  of  life. 
Good-bye." 

"You  haven't  all  the  obfuscation  of  the  stupidest  na- 
tion in  the  world,"  she  retorted.  "If  you  had  had  you'd 
have  had  a  chance  to  find  out  what  straight  talking 
means — which  it's  my  belief  you  never  have  yet. 
Good-bye.  You  take  my  tip.  Either  you  go  back  to 
where  you  were  before  you  sighted  Betty,  or  if  the  other 
one's  sick  of  you  too,  just  shuffle  the  cards,  take  a  fresh 
deal  and  start  fair.  You  go  home  and  spend  a  quiet 
evening  and  think  it  all  over." 

Vernon  went  off  laughing,  and  wondering  why  he 
didn't  hate  Miss  Voscoe.  He  did  not  laugh  long.  He 
sat  in  his  studio,  musing  till  it  was  too  late  to  go  out  to 
dine.  Then  he  found  some  biscuits  and  sherry — rem- 
nants of  preparations  for  the  call  of  a  picture  dealer — 
ate  and  drank,  and  spent  the  evening  in  the  way  recom- 


26 1 

mended  by  Miss  Voscoe.  He  lay  face  downward  on 
the  divan  in  the  dark,  and  he  did  "think  it  all  over." 
But  first  there  was  the  long  time  when  he  lay  quite  still 
— did  not  think  at  all,  only  remembered  her  hands  and 
her  eyes  and  her  hair,  and  the  pretty  way  her  brows 
lifted  when  she  was  surprised  or  perplexed —  and  the 
four  sudden  sweet  dimples  that  came  near  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  when  she  was  amused,  and  the  way  her 
mouth  drooped  when  she  was  tired. 

"I  want  you.  I  want  you.  I  want  you,"  said  the 
man  who  had  been  the  Amorist.  "I  want  you,  dear!" 

When  he  did  begin  to  think,  he  moved  uneasily  in  the 
dark  as  thought  after  thought  crept  out  and  stung  him 
and  slunk  away.  The  verses  he  had  written  at  Long 
Barton — ironic  verses,  written  with  the  tongue  in  the 
cheek — came  back  with  the  force  of  iron  truth : 

"I  love  you  to  my  heart's  hid  core : 

Those  other  loves?     How  can  one  learn 
From  marshlights  how  the  great  fires  burn  ? 

Ah,  no — I  never  loved  before  1" 

He  had  smiled  at  Temple's  confidences — when  Betty 
was  at  hand — to  be  watched  and  guarded.  Now  Betty 
was  away — anywhere.  And  Temple  was  deciding 
whether  it  was  she  whom  he  loved.  Suppose  he  did 
decide  that  it  was  she,  and,  as  Miss  Voscoe  had  said, 
made  her  see  it?  "Damn,"  said  Vernon,  "Oh,  damn!" 

He  was  beginning  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  the  fine 
flavours  of  the  different  brands  of  jealousy.  Anyway 
there  was  food  for  thought. 

There  was  food  for  little  else,  in  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed. Mr.  Vernon's  heart,  hungry  for  the  first  time,, 
had  to  starve.  He  went  often  to  Lady  St.  Craye's.  She 


262          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

was  so  gentle,  sweet,  yet  not  too  sympathetic — bright, 
amusing  even,  but  not  too  vivacious.  He  approved 
deeply  the  delicacy  with  which  she  ignored  that  last 
wild  interview.  She  was  sister,  she  was  friend — and 
she  had  the  rare  merit  of  seeming  to  forget  that  she  had 
been  confidante. 

It  was  he  who  re-opened  the  subject,  after  ten  days. 
She  had  told  herself  that  it  was  only  a  question  of 
time.  And  it  was. 

"Do  you  know  she's  disappeared?"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Disappeared?"  No  one  was  ever  more  astonished 
than  Lady  St.  Craye.  Quite  natural,  the  astonishment. 
Not  overdone  by  so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth. 

So  he  told  her  all  about  it,  and  she  twisted  her  long 
topaz  chain  and  listened  with  exactly  the  right  shade  of 
interest.  He  told  her  what  Miss  Voscoe  had  said — at 
least  most  of  it. 

"And  I  worry  about  Temple,"  he  said;  "like  any 
school  boy,  I  worry.  If  he  does  decide  that  he  loves  her 
better  than  you — You  said  you'd  help  me.  Can't  you 
make  sure  that  he  won't  love  her  better?" 

"I  could,  I  suppose,"  she  admitted.  To  herself  she 
said:  "Temple's  at  Grez.  She's  at  Grez.  They've 
been  there  ten  days." 

"If  only  you  would,"  he  said.  "It's  too  much  to  ask, 
I  know.  But  I  can't  ask  anything  that  isn't  too  much ! 
And  you're  so  much  more  noble  and  generous  than 
other  people — " 

"No  butter,  thanks,"  she  said. 

"It's  the  best  butter,"  he  earnestly  urged.  "I  mean 
that  I  mean  it  Won't  you  ?" 

"When  I  see  him  again — but  it's  not  very  fair  to 
him,  is  it?" 

"He's  an  awfully  good  chap,  you  know,"  said  Ver- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          263 

non  innocently.  And  once  more  Lady  St.  Craye  bowed 
before  the  sublime  apparition  of  the  Egoism  of  Man. 

"Good  enough  for  me,  you  think?  Well,  perhaps 
you're  right.  He's  a  dear  boy.  One  would  feel  very 
safe  if  one  loved  a  man  like  that." 

"Yes — wouldn't  one?"  said  Vernon. 

She  wondered  whether  Betty  was  feeling  safe.  No : 
ten  days  are  a  long  time,  especially  in  the  country — but 
it  would  take  longer  than  that  to  cure  even  a  little  imbe- 
cile like  Betty  of  the  Vernon  habit.  It  was  worse  than 
opium.  Who  ought  to  know  if  not  she  who  sat,  calm 
and  sympathetic,  promising  to  entangle  Temple  so  as  to 
leave  Betty  free  to  become  a  hopeless  prey  to  the  fell 
disease? 

Quite  suddenly  and  to  her  own  intense  surprise,  she 
laughed  out  loud. 

"What  is  it  ?"  his  alert  vanity  bristled  in  the  query. 

"It's  nothing — only  everything!  Life's  so  futile! 
We  pat  and  pinch  our  little  bit  of  clay,  and  look  at  it 
and  love  it  and  think  it's  going  to  be  a  masterpiece. — 
and  then  God  glances  at  it — and  He  doesn't  like  the 
modelling,  and  He  sticks  his  thumb  down,  and  the 
whole  thing's  broken  up,  and  there's  nothing  left  to  do 
but  throw  away  the  bits." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Vernon ;  "everything's  bound  to  come 
right  in  the  end.  It  all  works  out  straight  somehow." 

She  laughed  again. 

"Optimism — from  you?" 

"It's  not  optimism,"  he  asserted  eagerly,  "it's  only — 
well,  if  everything  doesn't  come  right  somehow,  some- 
where, some  day,  what  did  He  bother  to  make  the 
world  for?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  said,  my  dear,"  said  she.  She 
permitted  herself  the  little  endearment  now  and  then 


264          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

with  an  ironical  inflection,  as  one  fearful  of  being 
robbed  might  show  a  diamond  pretending  that  it 
was  paste. 

"You  think  He  made  it  for  a  joke?" 

"If  He  did  it's  a  joke  in  the  worst  possible  taste," 
said  she,  "but  I  see  your  point  of  view.  There  can't  be 
so  very  much  wrong  with  a  world  that  has  Her  in  it, — 
and  you — and  possibilities." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'm  not  at  all  sure 
that — Do  you  remember  the  chap  in  Jane  Eyre? — he 
knew  quite  well  that  that  Rosamund  girl  wouldn't 
make  him  the  wife  he  wanted.  Yet  he  wanted  nothing 
else.  I  don't  want  anything  but  her;  and  it  doesn't 
make  a  scrap  of  difference  that  I  know  exactly  what 
sort  of  fool  I  am." 

"A  knowledge  of  anatomy  doesn't  keep  a  broken 
bone  from  hurting,"  said  she,  "and  all  even  you  know 
about  love  won't  keep  off  the  heartache.  I  could  have 
told  you  that  long  ago." 

"I  know  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  help  it. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  wouldn't  help  it  if  I  could." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  and  something  in  her  voice 
touched  the  trained  sensibilities  of  the  Amorist.  He 
stooped  to  kiss  the  hand  that  teased  the  topazes. 

"Dear  Jasmine  Lady,"  he  said,  "my  optimism  doesn't 
keep  its  colour  long,  does  it  ?  Give  me  some  tea,  won't 
you  ?  There's  nothing  so  wearing  as  emotion." 

She  gave  him  tea. 

"It's  a  sort  of  judgment  on  you,  though,"  was  what 
she  gave  him  with  his  first  cup:  "you've  dealt  out  this 
very  thing  to  so  many  women, — and  now  it's  come 
home  to  roost." 

"I  didn't  know  what  a  fearful  wildfowl  it  was,"  he 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          265 

answered  smiling.    "I  swear  I  didn't.    I  begin  to  think 
I  never  knew  anything  at  all  before." 

"And  yet  they  say  Love's  blind." 

"And  so  he  is!  That's  just  it.  My  exotic  flower  of 
optimism  withers  at  your  feet.  It's  all  exactly  the  mud- 
dle you  say  it  is.  Pray  Heaven  for  a  clear  way  out! 
Meantime  thank  whatever  gods  may  be — I've  got  you." 

"Monsieur's  confidante  is  always  at  his  distinguished 
service,"  she  said.  And  thus  sealed  the  fountain  of 
confidences  for  that  day. 

But  it  broke  forth  again  and  again  in  the  days  that 
came  after.  For  now  he  saw  her  almost  every  day. 
And  for  her,  to  be  with  him,  to  know  that  she  had  of 
him  more  of  everything,  save  the  heart,  than  any  other 
woman,  spelled  something  wonderfully  like  happiness. 
More  like  it  than  she  had  the  art  to  spell  in  any  other 
letters. 

Vernon  still  went  twice  a  week  to  the  sketch-club. 
To  have  stayed  away  would  have  been  to  confess,  to 
the  whole  alert  and  interested  class,  that  he  had  only 
gone  there  for  the  sake  of  Betty. 

Those  afternoons  were  seasons  of  salutary  torture. 

He  tried  very  hard  to  work,  but,  though  he  still  re- 
membered how  a  paint  brush  should  be  handled,  there 
seemed  no  good  reason  for  using  one.  He  had  always 
found  his  planned  and  cultivated  emotions  strongly 
useful  in  forwarding  his  work.  This  undesired  unrest 
mocked  at  work,  and  at  all  the  things  that  had  made 
up  the  solid  fabric  of  one's  days.  The  ways  of  love — 
he  had  called  it  love;  it  was  a  name  like  another — had 
merely  been  a  sort  of  dram-drinking.  Such  love  was 
the  intoxicant  necessary  to  transfigure  life  to  the  point 
where  all  things,  even  work,  look  beautiful.  Now  he 
tasted  the  real  draught.  It  flooded  his  veins  like  fire 


266          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

and  stung  like  poison.  And  it  made  work,  and  all 
things  else,  look  mean  and  poor  and  unimportant. 

"I  want  you — I  want  you — I  want  you,"  said  Ver- 
non  to  the  vision  with  the  pretty  kitten  face,  and  the 
large  gray  eyes.  "I  want  you  more  than  everything  in 
the  world,"  he  said,  "everything  in  the  world  put  to- 
gether. Oh,  come  back  to  me — dear,  dear,  dear." 

He  was  haunted  without  cease  by  the  little  poem  he 
had  written  when  he  was  training  himself  to  be  in  love 
with  Betty: 

"I  love  you  to  my  heart's  hid  core: 

Those  other  loves?    How  should  one  learn 
From  marshlights  how  the  great  fires  burn  ? 

Ah,  no — I  never  loved  before!" 

"Prophetic,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "though  God  knows 
I  never  meant  it.  Any  fool  of  a  prophet  must  hit  the 
bull's  eye  at  least  once  in  a  life.  But  there  was  a  curious 
unanimity  of  prophecy  about  this.  The  aunt  warned 
me;  that  Conway  woman  warned  me;  the  Jasmine 
Lady  warned  me.  And  now  it's  happened,"  he  told 
himself.  "And  I  who  thought  I  knew  all  about  every- 
thing!" 

Miss  Conway's  name,  moving  through  his  thoughts, 
left  the  trail  of  a  new  hope. 

Next  day  he  breakfasted  at  Montmartre. 

The  neatest  little  Cremerie ;  white  paint,  green  walls 
stenciled  with  fat  white  geraniums.  On  each  small 
table  a  vase  of  green  Bruges  ware  or  Breton  pottery 
holding  not  a  crushed  crowded  bouquet,  but  one  sin- 
gle flower — a  pink  tulip,  a  pink  carnation,  a  pink  rose. 
On  the  desk  from  behind  which  the  Proprietress  ruled 
her  staff,  enormous  pink  peonies  in  a  tall  pot  of  Grez  de 
Flandre. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         267 

Behind  the  desk  Paula  Conway,  incredibly  neat  and 
business-like,  her  black  hair  severely  braided,  her  plain 
black  gown  fitting  a  figure  grown  lean  as  any  grey- 
hound's, her  lace  collar  a  marvel  of  fine  laundry  work. 

Dapper-waisted  waitresses  in  black,  with  white 
aprons,  served  the  customers.  Vernon  was  served  by 
Madame  herself.  The  clientele  formed  its  own  opin- 
ion of  the  cause  of  this,  her  only  such  condescension. 

"Well,  and  how's  trade  ?"  he  asked  over  his  aspara- 
gus. 

"Trade's  beautiful,"  Paula  answered,  with  the  frank 
smile  that  Betty  had  seen,  only  once  or  twice,  and  had 
loved  very  much:  "if  trade  will  only  go  on  behaving 
like  this  for  another  six  weeks  my  cruel  creditor  will  be 
paid  every  penny  of  the  money  that  launched  me." 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with  candid  affection. 

"Your  cruel  creditor's  not  in  any  hurry,"  he  said. 
"By  the  way,  I  suppose  you've  not  heard  anything  of 
Miss  Desmond?" 

"How  could  I  ?  You  know  you  made  me  write  that 
she  wasn't  to  write." 

"I  didn't  make  you  write  anything." 

"You  approved.  But  anyway  she  hasn't  my  address. 
Why?" 

"She's  gone  away :  and  she  also  has  left  no  address." 

"You  don't  think? — Oh,  no — nothing  could  have 
happened  to  her !" 

"No,  no,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "I  expect  her  father 
sent  for  her,  or  fetched  her." 

"The  best  thing  too,"  said  Paula.  "I  always  won- 
dered he  let  her  come." 

"Yes," — Vernon  remembered  How  little  Paula  knew. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  probably  gone  home." 

"Look  here,"   said  Miss   Conway  very  earnestly; 


268 

"there  wasn't  any  love  business  between  you  and  her, 
was  there?" 

"No,"  he  answered  strongly. 

"I  was  always  afraid  of  that.  Do  you  know — if  you 
don't  mind,  when  I've  really  paid  my  cruel  creditor 
everything,  I  should  like  to  write  and  tell  her  what  he's 
done  for  me.  I  should  like  her  to  know  that  she  really 
did  save  me — and  how.  Because  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
her  you'd  never  have  thought  of  helping  me.  Do  you 
think  I  might?" 

"It  could  do  no  harm,"  said  Vernon  after  a  silent 
moment.  "You'd  really  like  her  to  know  you're  all 
right.  You  are  all  right?" 

"I'm  right;  as  I  never  thought  I  could  be  ever 
again." 

"Well,  you  needn't  exaggerate  the  little  services  of 
your  cruel  creditor.    Come  to  think  of  it,  you  needn't 
name  him.    Just  say  it  was  a  man  you  knew." 
i     But  when  Paula  came  to  write  the  letter  that  was  not 
just  what  she  said. 


315oofe  4, — 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  FLIGHT. 

The  full  sunlight  streamed  into  the  room  when 
Betty,  her  packing  done,  drew  back  the  curtain.  She 
looked  out  on  the  glazed  roof  of  the  laundry,  the  lead 
roof  of  the  office,  the  blank  wall  of  the  new  grocery 
establishment  in  the  Rue  de  Rennes.  Only  a  little  blue 
sky  shewed  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  between  roofs,  by 
which  the  sun  came  in.  Not  a  tree,  not  an  inch  of 
grass,  in  sight;  only,  in  her  room,  half  a  dozen  roses 
that  Temple  had  left  for  her,  and  the  white  marguerite 
plant — tall,  sturdy,  a  little  tree  almost — that  Vernon 
had  sent  in  from  the  florist's  next  door  but  two. 
Everything  was  packed.  She  would  say  good-bye  to 
Madame  Bianchi ;  and  she  would  go,  and  leave  no  ad- 
dress, as  she  had  promised  last  night. 

"Why  did  you  promise?"  she  asked  herself.  And 
herself  replied: 

"Don't  you  bother.  We'll  talk  about  all  that  when 
we've  got  away  from  Paris.  He  was  quite  right.  You 
can't  think  here." 

"You'd  better  tell  the  cabman  some  other  station. 
That  cat  of  a  concierge  is  sure  to  be  listening." 

"Ah,  right.  I  don't  want  to  give  him  any  chance  of 
finding  me,  even  if  he  did  say  he  wanted  to  marry  me." 

A  fleet  lovely  picture  of  herself  in  bridal  smart  trav- 
elling clothes  arriving  at  the  Rectory  on  Vernon's  arm : 

271 


272         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Aren't  you  sorry  you  misjudged  him  so,  Father?" 
Gentle  accents  refraining  from  reproach.  A  very 
pretty  picture.  Yes.  Dismissed. 

Now  the  carriage  swaying  under  the  mound  of 
Betty's  luggage  starts  for  the  Gare  du  Nord.  In  the 
Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs  Betty  opens  her  mouth 
to  say,  "Gare  de  Lyons."  No:  this  is  his  street.  Bet- 
ter cross  it  as  quickly  as  may  be.  At  the  Church  of  St. 
Germain — yes. 

The  coachman  smiles  at  the  new  order :  like  the  con- 
cierge he  scents  an  intrigue,  whips  up  his  horse,  and 
swings  round  to  the  left  along  the  prettiest  of  all  the 
boulevards,  between  the  full-leafed  trees.  Past  Thir- 
ion's.  Ah ! 

That  thought,  or  pang,  or  nausea — Betty  doesn't 
quite  know  what  it  is — keeps  her  eyes  from  the  streets 
till  the  carriage  is  crossing  the  river.  Why — there  is 
Notre  Dame!  It  ought  to  be  miles  away.  Suppose 
Vernon  should  have  been  leaning  out  of  his  window 
when  she  passed  across  the  street,  seen  her,  divined  her 
destination,  followed  her  in  the  fleetest  carriage  acces- 
sible ?  The  vision  of  a  meeting  at  the  station : 

"Why  are  you  going  away?  What  have  I  done?" 
The  secret  of  this,  her  great  renunciation — the  whole 
life's  sacrifice  to  that  life's  idol — honor,  wrung  from 
her.  A  hand  that  would  hold  hers — under  pretence  of 
taking  her  bundle  of  rugs  to  carry. — She  wished  the 
outermost  rug  were  less  shabby!  Vernon's  voice. 

"But  I  can't  let  you  go.  Why  ruin  two  lives — nay, 
three  ?  For  it  is  you  only  that  I — " 

Dismissed. 

It  is  very  hot.  Paris  is  the  hottest  place  in  the  world. 
Betty  is  glad  she  brought  lavender  water  in  her  bag. 
Wishes  she  had  put  on  her  other  hat.  This  brown  one 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         273 

is  hot;  and  besides,  if  Vernon  'were  to  be  at  the  station. 
Interval.  Dismissed. 

Betty  has  never  before  made  a  railway  journey  alone. 
This  gives  one  a  forlorn  feeling.  Suppose  she  has  to 
pay  excess  on  her  luggage,  or  to  wrangle  about  contra- 
band ?  She  has  heard  all  about  the  Octroi.  Is  lavender 
water  smuggling?  And  what  can  they  do  to  you  for 
it?  Vernon  would  know  all  these  things.  And  if  he 
were  going  into  the  country  he  would  be  wearing  that 
almost-white  rough  suit  of  his  and  the  Panama  hat.  A 
rose — Madame  Abel  de  Chatenay — would  go  well  with 
that  coat.  Why  didn't  brides  consult  their  bridegrooms 
before  they  bought  their  trousseaux  ?  You  should  get 
your  gowns  to  rhyme  with  your  husband's  suits.  A 
dream  of  a  dress  that  would  be,  with  all  the  shades  of 
Madame  Abel  cunningly  blended.  A  honeymoon  lasts 
at  least  a  month.  The  roses  would  air  be  out  at  Long 
Barton  by  the  time  they  walked  up  that  moss-grown 
drive,  and  stood  at  the  Rectory  door,  and  she  mur- 
mured in  the  ear  of  the  Reverend  Cecil:  "Aren't  you 
sorry  you — " 

Dismissed.  And  perforce,  for  the  station  was 
reached. 

Betty,  even  in  the  brown  hat,  attracted  the  most 
attractive  of  the  porters — also,  of  course,  the  most 
attractable.  He  thought  he  spoke  English,  and  though 
this  was  not  so,  yet  the  friendly  blink  of  his  Breton- 
blue  eyes  and  his  encouraging  smile  gave  to  his : 

"Bourron?  Mais  oui — dix  heures  vingt.  Par  ici, 
Meess.  Je  m'occuperai  de  vous.  Et  des  bagages 
aussi — all  right,"  quite  the  ring  of  one's  mother  tongue. 

He  made  everything  easy  for  Betty,  found  her  a  car- 
riage without  company  ("I  can  cry  here  if  I  like,"  said 
the  Betty  that  Betty  liked  least),  arranged  her  small 


274         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

packages  neatly  in  the  rack,  took  her  50  centime  piece 
as  though  it  had  been  a  priceless  personal  souvenir,  and 
ran  half  the  length  of  the  platform  to  get  a  rose  from 
another  porter's  button-hole.  He  handed  it  to  her 
through  the  carriage  window. 

"Pour  egayer  le  voyage  de  Meess.  All  right !"  he 
smiled,  and  was  gone. 

She  settled  herself  in  the  far  corner,  and  took  off  her 
hat.  The  carriage  was  hot  as  any  kitchen.  With  her 
teeth  she  drew  the  cork  of  the  lavender  water  bottle, 
and  with  her  handkerchief  dabbed  the  perfume  on  fore- 
head and  ears. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle — De  grace  I" — the  voice  came 
through  the  open  window  beside  her.  A  train  full  of 
young  soldiers  was  beside  her  train,  and  in  the  window 
opposite  hers  three  boys'  faces  crowded  to  look  at  her. 
Three  hands  held  out  three  handkerchiefs — not  very 
white  certainly,  but — 

Betty  smiling  reached  out  the  bottle  and  poured  lav- 
ender water  on  each  outheld  handkerchief. 

"Ah,  le  bon  souvenir!"  said  one. 

"We  shall  think  of  the  beauty  of  an  angel  of  Made- 
moiselle every  time  we  smell  the  perfume  so  delicious," 
said  the  second. 

"And  longer  than  that — oh,  longer  than  that  by  all 
a  life !"  cried  the  third. 

The  train  started.  The  honest,  smiling  boy  faces  dis- 
appeared. Instinctively  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  look  back  at  them.  All  three  threw  kisses  at  her. 

"I  ought  to  be  offended/'  said  Betty,  and  instantly 
kissed  her  hand  in  return. 

"How  nice  French  people  are !"  she  said  as  she  sank 
back  on  the  hot  cushions. 

And  now  there  was  leisure  to  think — real  thoughts, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         275 

not  those  broken,  harassing  dreamings  that  had  buzzed 
aoout  her  between  57  Boulevard  Montparnasse  and 
the  station.  Also,  as  some  one  had  suggested,  one 
could  cry. 

She  leaned  back,  eyes  shut.    Her  next  thought  was : 

"I  have  been  to  sleep." 

She  had.  The  train  was  moving  out  of  a  station 
labelled  Fontainebleau. 

"And  oh,  the  trees !"  said  Betty,  "the  green  thick 
trees !  And  the  sky.  You  can  see  the  sky." 

Through  the  carriage  window  she  drank  delight 
from  the  far  grandeur  of  green  distances,  the  intimate 
beauty  of  green  rides,  green  vistas,  as  a  thirsty  carter 
drinks  beer  from  the  cool  lip  of  his  can — a  thirsty  lover 
madness  from  the  warm  lips  of  his  mistress. 

"Oh,  how  good!  How  green  and  good!"  she  told 
herself  over  and  over  again  till  the  words  made  a  song 
with  the  rhythm  of  the  blundering  train  and  the  hum- 
ming metals. 

"Bourron!" 

Her  station.  Little,  quiet,  sunlit,  like  the  station  at 
Long  Barton ;  a  flaming  broom  bush  and  the  white  of 
May  and  acacia  blossom  beyond  prim  palings ;  no  plat- 
form— a  long  leap  to  the  dusty  earth.  The  train  went 
on,  and  Betty  and  her  boxes  seemed  dropped  suddenly 
at  the  world's  end. 

The  air  was  fresh  and  still.  A  chestnut  tree  reared 
its  white  blossoms  like  the  candles  on  a  Christmas  tree 
for  giant  children.  The  white  dust  of  the  platform 
sparkled  like  diamond  dust.  May  trees  and  laburnums 
shone  like  silver  and  gold.  And  the  sun  was  warm  and 
the  tree-shadows  black  on  the  grass.  And  Betty  loved 
it  all. 


276         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Oh!"  she  said  suddenly,  "it's  a  year  ago  to-day 
since  I  met  him — in  the  warren." 

A  shadow  caressed  and  stung  her.  She  would  have 
liked  it  to  wear  the  mask  of  love  foregone — to  have 
breathed  plaintively  of  hopes  defeated  and  a  broken 
heart.  Instead  it  shewed  the  candid  face  of  a  real 
homesickness,  and  it  spoke  with  convincing  and  abomi- 
nably aggravating  plainness — of  Long  Barton. 

The  little  hooded  diligence  was  waiting  in  the  hot 
white  dust  outside  the  station. 

"But  yes. — It  is  I  who  transport  all  the  guests  of 
Madame  Chevillon,"  said  the  smiling  brown-haired 
bonnetless  woman  who  held  the  reins. 

Betty  climbed  up  beside  her. 

Along  a  straight  road  that  tall  ranks  of  trees  guarded 
but  did  not  shade,  through  the  patchwork  neatness  of 
the  little  culture  that  makes  the  deep  difference  between 
peasant  France  and  pastoral  England,  down  a  steep  hill 
into  a  little  white  town,  where  vines  grew  out  of  the 
very  street  to  cling  against  the  faces  of  the  houses  and 
wistaria  hung  its  mauve  pendants  from  every  arch  and 
lintel. 

The  Hotel  Chevillon  is  a  white-faced  house,  with  lit- 
tle unintelligent  eyes  of  windows,  burnt  blind,  it  seems, 
in  the  sun — neat  with  the  neatness  of  Provincial 
France. 

Out  shuffled  an  old  peasant  woman  in  short  skirt, 
heavy  shoes  and  big  apron,  her  arms  bared  to  the  elbow, 
a  saucepan  in  one  hand,  a  ladle  in  the  other.  She 
beamed  at  Betty. 

"I  wish  to  see  Madame  Chevillon." 

"You  see  her,  ma  belle  et  bonne,"  chuckled  the  old 
woman.  "It  is  me,  Madame  Chevillon.  You  will 
rooms,  is  it  not?  You  are  artist?  All  who 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         277 

come  to  the  Hotel  are  artist  Rooms?  Marie 
shall  show  you  the  rooms,  at  the  instant  even.  All  the 
rooms — except  one — that  is  the  room  of  the  English' 
Artist — all  that  there  is  of  most  amiable,  but  quite  mad. 
He  wears  no  hat,  and  his  brain  boils  in  the  sun.  Made- 
moiselle can  chat  with  him:  it  will  prevent  that  she 
bores  herself  here  in  the  Forest.'* 

Betty  disliked  the  picture. 

"I  think  perhaps,"  she  said,  translating  mentally  as 
she  spoke,  "that  I  should  do  better  to  go  to  another 
hotel,  if  there  is  only  one  man  here  and  he  is — '* 

She  saw  days  made  tiresome  by  the  dodging  of  & 
lunatic — nights  made  tremulous  by  a  lunatic's  yelling 
soliloquies. 

"Ah,"  said  Madame  Chevillon  comfortably,  "I 
thought  Mademoiselle  was  artist;  and  for  the  artists 
and  the  Spaniards  the  convenances  exist  not  But 
Mademoiselle  is  also  English.  They  eat  the  conve- 
nances every  day  with  the  soup. — See  then,  my  cher- 
ished. The  English  man,  he  is  not  a  dangerous  fool, 
only  a  beast  of  the  good  God ;  he  has  the  atelier  and  the 
room  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  But  there  is,  besides 
the  Hotel,  the  Garden  Pavilion,  un  appartement  of  two 
rooms,  exquisite,  on  the  first,  and  the  garden  room  that 
opens  big  upon  the  terrace.  It  is  there  that  Mademoi- 
selle will  be  well !" 

Betty  thought  so  too,  when  she  had  seen  the  "rooms 
exquisite  on  the  first" — neat,  bare,  well-scrubbed  rooms 
with  red-tiled  floors,  scanty  rugs  and  Frenchly  var- 
nished furniture — the  garden  room  too,  with  big  open 
hearth  and  no  furniture  but  wicker  chairs  and  tables. 

"Mademoiselle  can  eat  all  alone  on  the  terrace.  The 
English  mad  shall  not  approach.  I  will  charge  myself 


278          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

with  that.  Mademoiselle  may  repose  herself  here  as  on 
the  bosom  of  the  mother  of  Mademoiselle." 

Betty  had  her  dejeuner  on  the  little  stone  terrace 
with  rickety  rustic  railings.  Below  lay  the  garden, 
thick  with  trees. 

Away  among  the  trees  to  the  left  an  arbour.  She 
saw  through  the  leaves  the  milk-white  gleam  of  flan- 
nels, heard  the  chink  of  china  and  cutlery.  There,  no 
doubt,  the  mad  Englishman  was  even  now  breakfast- 
ing. There  was  the  width  of  the  garden  between  them. 
She  sat  still  till  the  flannel  gleam  had  gone  away  among 
the  trees.  Then  she  went  out  and  explored  the  little 
town.  She  bought  a  blue  packet  of  cigarettes.  Miss 
Voscoe  had  often  tried  to  persuade  her  to  smoke.  Most 
of  the  girls  did.  Betty  had  not  wanted  to  do  it  any 
more  for  that.  She  had  had  a  feeling  that  Vernon 
would  not  like  her  to  smoke. 

And  in  Paris  one  had  to  be  careful.    But  now — 

"I  am  absolutely  my  own  master,"  she  said.  "I  am 
staying  by  myself  at  a  hotel,  exactly  like  a  man.  I  shall 
feel  more  at  home  if  I  smoke.  And  besides,  no  one  can 
see  me.  It's  just  for  me.  And  it  shows  I  don't  care 
what  he  likes." 

Lying  in  a  long  chair  reading  one  of  her  Tauchnitz 
books  and  smoking,  Betty  felt  very  manly  indeed. 

The  long  afternoon  wore  on.  The  trees  of  the  gar- 
den crowded  round  Betty  with  soft  whispers  in  a  lan- 
guage not  known  of  the  trees  on  the  boulevards. 

"I  am  very  very  unhappy,"  said  Betty  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  delight 

She  went  in,  unpacked,  arranged  everything  neatly. 
She  always  arranged  everything  neatly,  but  nothing 
ever  would  stay  arranged.  She  wrote  to  her  father, 
explaining  that  Madame  Gautier  had  brought  her  and 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         279 

the  other  girls  to  Grez  for  the  summer,  and  she  gave  as 
her  address: 

Chez  Madame  Chevillon, 
Pavilion  du  Jardin,  Grez. 

"I  shall  be  very  very  unhappy  to-morrow,"  said 
Betty  that  night,  laying  her  face  against  the  coarse  cool 
linen  of  her  pillow;  "to-day  I  have  been  stunned — I 
haven't  been  able  to  feel  anything.  But  to-morrow." 

To-morrow,  she  knew,  would  be  golden  and  green 
even  as  to-day.  But  she  should  not  care.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  happy.  How  could  she  be  happy  now  that 
she  had  of  her  own  free  will  put  away  the  love  of  her 
life?  She  called  and  beckoned  to  all  the  thoughts  that 
the  green  world  shut  out,  and  they  came  at  her  call, 
fluttering  black  wings  to  hide  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
field  and  wood  and  green  garden,  and  making  their 
nest  in  her  heart. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  the  hot  rough  pillow,  "now 
it  begins  to  hurt  again.  I  knew  it  would." 

It  hurt  more  than  she  had  meant  it  to  hurt,  when 
she  beckoned  those  black-winged  thoughts.  It  hurt  so 
much  that  she  could  not  sleep.  She  got  up  and  leaned 
from  the  window. 

She  wondered  where  Vernon  was.  It  was  quite 
early.  Not  eleven.  Lady  St.  Craye  had  called  that 
quite  early. 

"He's  with  her,  of  course,"  said  Betty,  "sitting  at 
her  feet,  no  doubt,  and  looking  up  at  her  hateful  eyes, 
and  holding  her  horrid  hand,  and  forgetting  that  he 
ever  knew  a  girl  named  Me." 

Betty  dressed  and  went  out. 

She  crossed  the  garden.  It  was  very  dark  among  the 
trees.  It  would  be  lighter  in  the  road. 

The  big  yard  door  was  ajar.     She  pushed  it  softly. 


28o         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

It  creaked  and  let  her  through  into  the  silent  street. 
There  were  no  lights  in  the  hotel,  no  lights  in  any  of 
the  houses. 

She  stood  a  moment,  hesitating.  A  door  creaked 
inside  the  hotel.  She  took  the  road  to  the  river. 

"I  wonder  if  people  ever  do  drown  themselves  for 
love,"  said  Betty :  "he'd  be  sorry  then." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE  LUNATIC. 

The  night  kept  its  promise.  Betty,  slipping  from  the 
sleeping  house  into  the  quiet  darkness,  seemed  to  slip 
into  a  poppy-fringed  pool  of  oblivion.  The  night  laid 
fresh,  cold  hands  on  her  tired  eyes,  and  shut  out  many 
things.  She  paused  for  a  minute  on  the  bridge  to  listen 
to  the  restful  restless  whisper  of  the  water  against  the 
rough  stone. 

Her  eyes  growing  used  to  the  darkness  discerned  the 
white  ribbon  of  road  unrolling  before  her.  The  trees 
were  growing  thicker.  This  must  be  the  forest.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  the  forest. 

"How  dark  it  is,"  she  said,  "how  dear  and  dark! 
And  how  still!  I  suppose  the  trams  are  running  just 
the  same  along  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse, — and  all 
the  lights  and  people,  and  the  noise.  And  I've  been 
there  all  these  months — and  all  the  time  this  was  here 
—this!" 

Paris  was  going  on — all  that  muddle  and  maze  of 
worried  people.  And  she  was  out  of  it  all ;  here,  alone. 

Alone?  A  quick  terror  struck  at  the  heart  of  her 
content.  An  abrupt  horrible  certainty  froze  her — the 
certainty  that  she  was  not  alone.  There  was  some  liv- 
ing thing  besides  herself  in  the  forest,  quite  near  her — 
something  other  than  the  deer  and  the  squirrels  and  the 
quiet  dainty  woodland  people.  She  felt  it  in  every  fibre 
lotig  before  she  heard  that  faint  light  sound  that  was 

281 


282         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST. 

not  one  of  the  forest  noises.  She  stood  still  and  lis- 
tened. 

She  had  never  been  frightened  of  the  dark — of  the 
outdoor  dark.  At  Long  Barton  she  had  never  been 
afraid  even  to  go  past  the  church-yard  in  the  dark  night 
— the  free  night  that  had  never  held  any  terrors,  only 
dreams. 

But  now:  she  quickened  her  pace,  and — yes — foot- 
steps came  on  behind  her.  And  in  front  the  long 
straight  ribbon  of  the  road  „ unwound,  gray  now  in  the 
shadow.  There  seemed  to  be  no  road  turning  to  right 
or  left.  She  could  not  go  on  forever.  She  would  have 
to  turn,  sometime — if  not  now,  yet  sometime — in  this 
black  darkness,  and  then  she  would  meet  this  thing  that 
trod  so  softly,  so  stealthily  behind  her. 

Before  she  knew  that  she  had  ceased  to  walk,  she 
was  crouched  in  the  black  between  two  bushes.  She 
had  leapt  as  the  deer  leaps,  and  crouched,  still  as  any 
deer. 

Her  dark  blue  linen  gown  was  one  with  the  forest 
shadows.  She  breathed  noiselessly — her  eyes  were 
turned  to  the  gray  ribbon  of  road  that  had  been  behind 
her.  She  had  heard.  Now  she  would  see. 

She  did  see — something  white  and  tall  and  straight. 
Oh,  the  relief  of  the  tallness  and  straightness  and 
whiteness !  She  had  thought  of  something  dwarfed  and 
clumsy — dark,  misshapen,  slouching  beast-like  on  two 
shapeless  feet.  Why  were  people  afraid  of  tall  white 
ghosts  ? 

It  passed.  It  was  a  man — in  a  white  suit.  Just  an 
ordinary  man.  No,  not  ordinary.  The  ordinary  man 
in  France  does  not  wear  white.  Nor  in  England,  ex- 
cept for  boating  and  tennis  and — 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         283 

Flannels.  Yes.  The  lunatic  who  boiled  his  brains 
in  the  sun! 

Betty's  terror  changed  colour  as  the  wave  changes 
from  green  to  white,  but  it  lost  not  even  so  much  of  its 
force  as  the  wave  loses  by  the  change.  It  held  her 
moveless  till  the  soft  step  of  the  tennis  shoes  died  away. 
Then  softly  and  hardly  moving  at  all,  moving  so  little 
that  not  a  leaf  of  those  friendly  bushes  rustled,  she 
slipped  off  her  shoes :  took  them  in  her  hand,  made  one 
leap  through  the  crackling,  protesting  undergrowth  and 
fled  back  along  the  road,  fleet  as  a  greyhound. 

She  ran  and  she  walked,  very  fast,  and  then  she  ran 
again  and  never  once  did  she  pause  to  look  or  listen. 
If  the  lunatic  caught  her — well,  he  would  catch  her, 
but  it  should  not  be  her  fault  if  he  did. 

The  trees  were  thinner.  Ahead  she  saw  glimpses  of 
a  world  that  looked  quite  light,  the  bridge  ahead.  With 
one  last  spurt  she  ran  across  it,  tore  up  the  little  bit  of 
street,  slipped  through  the  door,  and  between  the  gar- 
den trees  to  her  pavilion. 

She  looked  very  carefully  in  every  corner — all  was 
still  and  empty.  She  locked  the  door,  and  fell  face 
downward  on  her  bed. 

Vernon  in  his  studio  was  "thinking  things  over" 
after  the  advice  of  Miss  Voscoe  in  much  the  same  atti- 
tude. 

"Oh,"  said  Betty,  "I  will  never  go  out  at  night 
again !  And  I  will  leave  this  horrible,  horrible  place  the 
very  first  thing  to-morrow  morning ! 

But  to-morrow  morning  touched  the  night's  events 
with  new  colours  from  its  shining  palette. 

"After  all,  even  a  lunatic  has  a  right  to  walk  out 
in  the  forest  if  it  wants  to,"  she  told  herself,  "and  it 


284         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

didn't  know  I  was  there,  I  expect,  really.  But  I  think 
I'll  go  and  stay  at  some  other  hotel" 

She  asked,  when  her  "complete  coffee"  came  to  her, 
what  the  mad  gentleman  did  all  day. 

"He  is  not  so  stupid  as  Mademoiselle  supposes," 
said  Marie.  "All  the  artists  are  insane,  and  he,  he  is 
only  a  little  more  insane  than  the  others.  He  is  not  a 
real  mad,  all  the  same,  see  you.  To-day  he  makes 
drawing's  at  Montigny." 

"Which  way  is  Montigny?"  asked  Betty.  And, 
learning,  strolled,  when  her  coffee  was  finished,  by 
what  looked  like  the  other  way. 

It  took  her  to  the  river. 

"It's  like  the  Medway,"  said  Betty,  stooping  to  the 
fat  cowslips  at  her  feet,  "only  prettier;  and  I  never  saw 
any  cowslips  here — You  dears!" 

Betty  would  not  look  at  her  sorrow  in  this  gay,  glad 
world.  But  she  knew  at  last  what  her  sorrow's  name 
was.  She  saw  now  that  it  was  love  that  had  stood  all 
the  winter  between  her  and  Vernorj,  holding  a  hand  of 
each.  In  her  blindness  she  had  called  it  friendship, — 
but  now  she  knew  its  real,  royal  name. 

She  felt  that  her  heart  was  broken.  Even  the  fact 
that  her  grief  was  a  thing  to  be  indulged  or  denied  at 
will  brought  her  no  doubts.  She  hz.d  always  wanted  to 
be  brave  and  noble.  Well,  now  she  was  being  both. 

A  turn  of  the  river  brought  to  sight  a  wide  reach 
dotted  with  green  islands,  each  a  tiny  forest  of  wil- 
low saplings  and  young  alders. 

There  was  a  boat  moored  under  an  aspen,  a  great 
clumsy  boat,  but  it  had  sculls  in  it.  It  would  be  pleas- 
ant to  go  out  to  the  islands. 

She  got  into  the  boat,  loosened  the  heavy  rattling 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         285 

chain  and  flung  it  in  board,  took  up  the  sculls  and  began 
to  pull.    It  was  easy  work. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  such  a  good  oar,"  said  Betty  as 
the  boat  crept  swiftly  down  the  river. 

As  she  stepped  into  the  boat,  she  noticed  the  long 
river  reeds  straining  down  stream  like  the  green  hair 
of  hidden  water-nixies. 

She  would  land  at  the  big  island — the  boat  steered 
easily  and  lightly  enough  for  all  its  size — but  before  she 
could  ship  her  oars  and  grasp  at  a  willow  root  she  shot 
past  the  island. 

Then  she  remembered  the  streaming  green  weeds. 

"Why,  there  must  be  a  frightful  current !"  she  said. 
What  could  make  the  river  run  at  this  pace — a  weir — 
or  a  waterfall? 

She  turned  the  boat's  nose  up  stream  and  pulled.  Ah, 
this  was  work!  Then  her  eyes,  fixed  in  the  exertion  of 
pulling,  found  that  they  saw  no  moving  banks,  but  just 
one  picture:  a  willow,  a  clump  of  irises,  three  poplars 
in  the  distance — and  the  foreground  of  the  picture  did 
not  move.  All  her  pulling  only  sufficed  to  keep  the 
boat  from  going  with  the  stream.  And  now,  as  the 
effort  relaxed  a  little  it  did  not  even  do  this.  The  fore- 
ground did  move — the  wrong  way.  The  boat  was 
slipping  slowly  down  stream.  She  turned  and  made 
for  the  bank,  but  the  stream  caught  her  broadside  on, 
whirled  the  boat  round  and  swept  it  calmly  and  gently 
down — towards  the  weir— or  the  waterfall. 

Betty  pulled  two  strong  strokes,  driving  the  boat's 
nose  straight  for  the  nearest  island,  shipped  the  sculls 
with  a  jerk,  stumbled  forward  and  caught  at  an  alder 
stump.  She  flung  the  chain  round  it  and  made  fast. 
The  boat's  stern  swung  round — it  was  thrust  in  under 


286         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

the  bank  and  held  there  close ;  the  chain  clicked  loudly 
as  it  stretched  taut. 

"Well !"  said  Betty.  The  island  was  between  her  and 
the  riverside  path.  No  one  would  be  able  to  see  her. 
She  must  listen  and  call  out  when  she  heard  anyone 
pass.  Then  they  would  get  another  boat  and  come  and 
fetch  her  away.  She  would  not  tempt  fate  again  alone 
in  that  boat.  She  was  not  going  to  be  drowned  in  any 
silly  French  river. 

She  landed,  pushed  through  the  saplings,  found  a 
mossy  willow  stump  and  sat  down  to  get  her  breath. 

It  was  very  hot  on  the  island.  It  smelt  damply  of 
wet  lily  leaves  and  iris  roots  and  mud.  Flies  buzzed 
and  worried.  The  time  was  very  long.  And  no  one 
came  by. 

"I  may  have  to  spend  the  day  here,"  she  told  her- 
self. "It's  not  so  safe  in  the  boat,  but  it's  not  so  fly-y 
either." 

And  still  no  one  passed. 

Suddenly  the  soft  whistling  of  a  tune  came  through 
the  hot  air.  A  tune  she  had  learned  in  Paris. 

"C'etait  deux  amants." 

"Hi !"  cried  Betty  in  a  voice  that  was  not  at  all  like 
her  voice.  "Help ! — Au  secours!"  she  added  on  second 
thoughts. 

"Where  are  you  ?"  came  a  voice.  How  alike  all  Eng- 
lishmen's voices  seemed — in  a  foreign  land! 

"Here — on  the  island!  Send  someone  out  with  a 
boat,  will  you?  I  can't  work  my  boat  a  bit." 

Through  the  twittering  leaves  she  saw  something 
white  waving.  Next  moment  a  big  splash.  She  could 
see,  through  a  little  gap,  a  white  blazer  thrown  down 
on  the  bank — a  pair  of  sprawling  brown  boots ;  in  the 
water  a  sleek  wet  round  head,  an  arm  in  a  blue  shirt 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          287 

sleeve  swimming  a  strong  side  stroke.  It  was  the  luna- 
tic ;  of  course  it  was.  And  she  had  called  to  him,  and 
he  was  coming.  She  pushed  back  to  the  boat,  leaped  in, 
and  was  fumbling  with  the  chain  when  she  heard  the 
splash  and  the  crack  of  broken  twigs  that  marked  the 
lunatic's  landing. 

She  would  rather  chance  the  weir  or  the  waterfall 
than  be  alone  on  that  island  with  a  maniac.  But  the 
chain  was  stretched  straight  and  stiff  as  a  lance, — she 
could  not  untwist  it.  She  was  still  struggling,  with 
pink  fingers  bruised  and  rust-stained,  when  something 
heavy  crashed  through  the  saplings  and  a  voice  cried 
close  to  her: 

"Drop  it!  What  are  you  doing?" — and  a  hand  fell 
on  the  chain. 

Betty,  at  bay,  raised  her  head.  Lunatics,  she  knew, 
could  be  quelled  by  the  calm  gaze  of  the  sane  human 
eye. 

She  gave  one  look,  and  held  out  both  hands  with  a 
joyous  cry. 

"Oh, — it's  you!  I  am  so  glad!  Where  did  you 
come  from  ?  Oh,  how  wet  you  are !" 

Then  she  sat  down  on  the  thwart  and  said  no  more, 
because  of  the  choking  feeling  in  her  throat  that  told 
her  very  exactly  just  how  frightened  she  had  been. 

"You !"  Temple  was  saying  very  slowly.  "How  on 
earth  ?  Where  are  you  staying  ?  Where's  your  party  ?" 

He  was  squeezing  the  water  out  of  sleeves  and  trou- 
ser  legs. 

"I  haven't  got  a  party.  I'm  staying  alone  at  a  hotel 
— just  like  a  man.  I  know  you're  frightfully  shocked. 
You  always  are." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  he  asked,  drawing  the 


288         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

chain  in  hand  over  hand,  till  a  loose  loop  of  it  dipped  in 
the  water. 

"Hotel  Chevillon.    How  dripping  you  are!" 

"Hotel  Chevillon,"  he  repeated.  "Never.!  Then  it 
was  you!" 

"What  was  me?" 

"That  I  was  sheep-'dog  to  last  night  in  the  forest." 

"Then  it  was  you?  And  I  thought  it  was  the  luna- 
tic! Oh,  if  I'd  only  known!  But  why  did  you  come 
after  me — if  you  didn't  know  it  was  me?" 

Temple  blushed  through  the  runnels  of  water  that 
trickled  from  his  hair. 

"I — well,  Madame  told  me  there  was  an  English 
girl  staying  at  the  hotel — and  I  heard  some  one  go  out 
— and  I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  I  thought  it  was 
the  girl,  and  I  just — well,  if  anything  had  gone  wrong 
— a  drunken  man,  or  anything — it  was  just  as  well 
there  should  be  someone  there,  don't  you  know." 

"That's  very,  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Betty.  "But 
oh !" — She  told  him  about  the  lunatic. 

"Oh,  that's  me!"  said  Temple.  "I  recognise  the  por- 
trait, especially  about  the  hat." 

He  had  loosened  the  chain  and  was  pulling  with 
strong  even  strokes  across  the  river  towards  the  bank 
where  his  coat  lay. 

"We'll  land  here  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Can't  you  pull  up  to  the  place  where  I  stole  the 
boat?" 

He  laughed: 

"The  man's  not  living  who  could  pull  against  this 
stream  when  the  mill's  going  and  the  lower  sluice  gates 
are  open.  How  glad  I  am  that  I —  And  how  plucky 
and  splendid  of  you  not  to  lose  your  head,  but  just  to 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         289 

hang  on.    It  takes  a  lot  of  courage  to  wait,  doesn't  it?" 

Betty  thought  it  did. 

"Let  me  carry  your  coat,"  said  Betty  as  they  landed. 
"You'll  make  it  so  wet." 

He  stood  still  a  moment  and  looked  at  her. 

"Now  we're  on  terra  cotta,"  he  said,  "let  me  remind 
you  that  we've  not  shaken  hands.  Oh,  but  it's  good  to 

see  you  again !" 

***** 

"Look  well,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Chevillon,  "and 
when  you  see  approach  the  Meess,  warn  me,  that  I  may 
make  the  little  omelette  at  the  instant." 

"Oh,  la,  la,  madame!"  cried  Marie  five  minutes 
later.  "Here  it  is  that  she  comes,  and  the  mad  with 
her.  He  talks  with  her,  in  laughing.  She  carries  his 
coat,  and  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  has  any  hat/' 

"I  will  make  a  double  omelette,"  said  Madame. 
"Give  me  still  more  of  the  eggs.  The  English  are  all 
mad — the  one  like  the  other;  but  even  mads  must  eat, 
my  child.  Is  it  not?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

TEMPERATURES. 

"It  isn't  as  though  she  were  the  sort  of  girl  who  can't 
take  care  of  herself,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  to  the  In- 
ward Monitor  who  was  buzzing  its  indiscreet  common- 
places in  her  ear.  "I've  really  done  her  a  good  turn  by 
sending  her  to  Grez.  No — it's  not  in  the  least  com- 
promising for  a  girl  to  stay  at  the  same  hotel.  And  be- 
sides, there  are  lots  of  amusing  people  there,  I  expect. 
She'll  have  a  delightful  time,  and  get  to  know  that 
Temple  boy  really  well.  I'm  sure  he'd  repay  investi- 
gation. If  I  weren't  a  besotted  fool  I  could  have  pur- 
sued those  researches  myself.  But  it's  not  what's  worth 
having  that  one  wants ;  it's — it's  what  one  does  want. 
Yes.  That's  all." 

Paris  was  growing  intolerable.  But  for — well,  a 
thousand  reasons — Lady  St.  Craye  would  already  have 
left  it.  The  pavements  were  red-hot.  When  one  drove 
it  was  through  an  air  like  the  breath  from  the  open 
mouth  of  a  furnace. 

She  kept  much  within  doors,  filled  her  rooms  with 
roses,  and  lived  with  every  window  open.  Her  bal- 
cony, too,  was  full  of  flowers,  and  the  striped  sun- 
blinds  beyond  each  open  window  kept  the  rooms  in 
pleasant  shadow. 

"But  suppose  something  happens  to  her — all  alone 
there."  said  the  Inward  Monitor. 

"Nothing  will.  She's  not  that  sort  of  girl."  Her 
290 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         291 

headache  had  been  growing  worse  these  three  days. 
The  Inward  Monitor  might  have  had  pity,  remember- 
ing that — but  no. 

"You  told  Him  that  all  girls  were  the  same  sort  of 
girls,"  said  the  pitiless  voice. 

"I  didn't  mean  in  that  way.  I  suppose  you'd  have 
liked  me  to  write  that  anonymous  letter  and  restore  her 
to  the  bosom  of  her  furious  family  ?  I've  done  the  girl 
a  good  turn — for  what  she  did  for  me.  She's  a  good 
little  thing — too  good  for  him,  even  if  I  didn't  happen 
to — And  Temple's  her  ideal  mate.  I  wonder  if  he's 
found  it  out  yet  ?  He  must  have  by  now :  three  weeks 
in  the  same  hotel." 

Temple,  however,  was  not  in  the  same  hotel.  The 
very  day  of  the  river  rescue  and  the  double  omelette 
he  had  moved  his  traps  a  couple  of  miles  down  the 
river  to  Montigny. 

A  couple  of  miles  is  a  good  distance.  Also  a  very 
little  way,  as  you  choose  to  take  it. 

"You  know  it  was  a  mean  trick,"  said  the  Inward 
Monitor.  "Why  not  have  let  the  girl  go  away  where 
she  could  be  alone — and  get  over  it?" 

"Oh,  be  quiet !"  said  Lady  St.  Craye.  "I  never  knew 
myself  so  tiresome  before.  I  think  I  must  be  going  to 
be  ill.  My  head  feels  like  an  ice  in  an  omelette." 

Vernon,  strolling  in  much  later,  found  her  with  eyes 
closed,  leaning  back  among  her  flowers  as  she  had  lain 
all  that  long  afternoon. 

"How  pale  you  look,"  he  said.  "You  ought  to  get 
away  from  here." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  I  ought.  It  would  be 
easier  for  you  if  you  hadn't  the  awful  responsibility  of 
bringing  me  roses  every  other  day.  What  beauty- 
darlings  these  are !"  She  dipped  her  face  in  the  fresh 


292         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

pure  whiteness  of  the  ones  he  had  laid  on  her  knee. 
Their  faces  felt  cold,  like  the  faces  of  dead  people. 
She  shivered. 

"Heaven  knows  what  I  should  do  without  you  to — 
to  bring  my — my  roses  to,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  bring  me  anything  else  to-day?"  she  roused 
herself  to  ask.  "Any  news,  for  instance?" 

"No/'  he  said.  "There  isn't  any  news — there  never 
will  be.  She's  gone  home — I'm  certain  of  it.  Next 
week  I  shall  go  over  to  England  and  propose  for  her 
formally  to  her  step-father." 

"A  very  proper  course!" 

It  was  odd  that  talking  to  some  one  else  should  make 
one's  head  throb  like  this.  And  it  was  so  difficult  to 
know  what  to  say,  Very  odd.  It  had  been  much  easier 
to  talk  to  the  Inward  Monitor. 

She  made  herself  say:  "And  suppose  she  isn't 
there?"  She  thought  she  said  it  rather  well 

"Well,  then  there's  no  harm  done." 

"He  doesn't  like  you."  She  was  glad  she  had  re- 
membered that 

"He  didn't — but  the  one  little  word  'marriage/ 
simply  spoken,  is  a  magic  spell  for  taming  savage  rela- 
tives. They'll  eat  out  of  your  hand  after  that — at  least 
so  I'm  told." 

It  was  awful  that  he  should  decide  to  do  this — heart- 
breaking. But  it  did  not  seem  to  be  hurting  her  heart. 
That  felt  as  though  it  wasn't  there.  Could  one  feel 
emotion  in  one's  hands  and  feet?  Hers  were  ice  cold 
— but  inside  they  tingled  and  glowed,  like  a  worm  of 
fire  in  a  chrysalis  of  ice,  What  a  silly  simile. 

"Must  you  go?"  was  what  she  found  herself  saying. 
"Suppose  she  isn't  there  at  all?  You'll  simply  be  giv- 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         293 

ing  her  away — all  her  secret — and  he'll  fetch  her 
home." 

That  at  least  was  quite  clearly  put. 

''I'm  certain  she  is  at  home,"  he  said.  "And  I  don't 
see  why  I  am  waiting  till  next  week.  I'll  go  tomor- 
row." 

If  you  are  pulling  a  rose  to  pieces  it  is  very  impor- 
tant to  lay  the  petals  in  even  rows  on  your  lap,  espe- 
cially if  the  rose  be  white. 

''Eustace,"  she  said,  suddenly  feeling  quite  coherent, 
"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  away  from  Paris  just  now.  I 
don't  believe  you'd  find  her.  I  have  a  feeling  that  she's 
not  far  away.  I  think  that  is  quite  sensible.  I  am  not 
saying  it  because  I — And — I  feel  very  ill,  Eustace.  I 
think  I  am — Oh,  I  am  going  to  be  ill,  very  ill,  I  think ! 
Won't  you  wait  a  little?  You'll  have  such  years  and 
years  to  be  happy  in.  I  don't  want  to  be  ill  here  in 
Paris  with  no  one  to  care." 

She  was  leaning  forward,  her  hands  on  the  arms  of 
her  chair,  and  for  the  first  time  that  day,  he  saw  her 
face  plainly.  He  said :  "I  shall  go  out  now,  and  wire 
for  your  sister." 

"Not  for  worlds !  I  forbid  it.  She'd  drive  me  mad. 
No — but  my  head's  running  round  like  a  beetle  on  a 
pin.  I  think  you'd  better  go  now.  But  don't  go  to- 
morrow. I  mean  I  think  I'll  go  to  sleep.  I  feel  as  if 
I'd  tumbled  off  the  Eiffel  tower  and  been  caught  on  a 
cloud — one  side  of  it's  cold  and  the  other's  blazing." 

He  took  her  hand,  felt  her  pulse.  Then  he  kissed  the 
hand. 

"My  dear,  tired  Jasmine  Lady,"  he  said,  "I'll  send 
in  a  doctor.  And  don't  worry.  I  won't  go  to-morrow. 
I'll  write." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  said,  "write  then, — and  it  will 


294         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

all  come  out — about  her  being  here  alone.  And  she'll 
always  hate  you.  /  don't  care  what  you  do !" 

"I  suppose  I  can  write  a  letter  as  though — as  though 
I'd  not  seen  her  since  Long  Barton."  He  inwardly 
thanked  her  for  that  hint. 

"A  letter  written  from  Paris  ?  That's  so  likely,  isn't 
it  ?  But  do  what  you  like.  7  don't  care  what  you  do." 

She  was  faintly,  agreeably  surprised  to  notice  that 
she  was  speaking  the  truth.  "It's  rather  pleasant,  do 
you  know,"  she  went  on  dreamily,  "when  everything 
that  matters  suddenly  goes  flat,  and  you  wonder  what 
on  earth  you  ever  worried  about.  Why  do  people  al- 
ways talk  about  cold  shivers  ?  I  think  hot  shivers  are 
much  more  amusing.  It's  like  a  skylark  singing  up 
close  to  the  sun,  and  doing  the  tremolo  with  its  wings. 
I'm  sorry  you're  going  away,  though." 

"I'm  not  going  away,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  leave 
you  when  you're  ill  for  all  the  life's  happinesses  that 
ever  were.  Oh,  why  can't  you  cure  me  ?  I  don't  want 
to  want  her ;  I  want  to  want  you." 

"I'm  certain,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  brightly,  "that 
what  you've  just  been  saying's  most  awfully  interest- 
ing, but  I  like  to  hear  things  said  ever  so  many  times. 
Then  the  seventh  time  you  understand  everything,  and 
the  coldness  and  the  hotness  turn  into  silver  and  gold 
and  everything  is  quite  beautiful,  and  I  think  I  am  not 
saying  exactly  what  you  expected. — Don't  think  I  don't 
know  that  what  I  say  sounds  like  nonsense.  I  know 
that  quite  well,  only  I  can't  stop  talking.  You  know 
one  is  like  that  sometimes.  It  was  like  that  the  night 
you  hit  me." 

"I?    Hit  you?' 

He  was  kneeling  by  her  low  chair  holding  her  hand, 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         295 

as  she  lay  back  talking  quickly  in  low,  even  tones,  her 
golden  eyes  shining  wonderfully. 

"No — you  didn't  call  it  hitting.  But  things  aren't 
always  what  we  call  them,  are  they  ?  You  mustn't  kiss 
me  now,  Eustace.  I  think  I've  got  some  horrid  fever — 
I'm  sure  I  have.  Because  of  course  nobody  could  be 
bewitched  nowadays,  and  put  into  a  body  that  feels 
thick  and  thin  in  the  wrong  places.  And  my  head  isn't 
too  big  to  get  through  the  door. — Of  course  I  know  it 
isn't.  It  would  be  funny  if  it  were.  I  do  love  funny 
things. — So  do  you.  I  like  to  hear  you  laugh.  I  wish 
I  could  say  something  funny,  so  as  to  hear  you  laugh 
now." 

She  was  holding  his  Hand  very  tightly  with  one  of 
hers.  The  other  held  the  white  roses.  All  her  mind 
braced  itself  to  a  great  exertion  as  the  muscles  do  for 
a  needed  effort.  She  spoke  very  slowly. 

"Listen,  Eustace.  I  am  going  to  be  ill.  Get  a  nurse 
and  a  doctor  and  go  away.  Perhaps  it  is  catching. 
And  if  I  fall  through  the  floor,"  she  added  laughing, 
"it  is  so  hard  to  stop !" 

"Put  your  arms  round  my  neck,"  he  said,  for  she 
had  risen  and  was  swaying  like  a  flame  in  the  wind — 
the  white  rose  leaves  fell  in  showers. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to,  now,"  she  said,  astonished 
that  it  should  be  so. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do!" — He  spoke  as  one  speaks  to  a 
child.  "Put  your  arms  round  Eustace's  neck, — your 
own  Eustace  that's  so  fond  of  you." 

"Are  you?"  she  said,  and  her  arms  fell  across  his 
shoulders. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  he  said.    "Hold  tight." 

He  lifted  her  and  carried  her,  not  quite  steadily,  for 


296         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

carrying  a  full-grown  woman  is  not  the  bagatelle  novel- 
ists would  have  us  believe  it. 

He  opened  her  bedroom  door,  laid  her  on  the  white, 
lacy  coverlet  of  her  bed. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you  are  to  lie  quite  still.  You've 
been  so  good  and  dear  and  unselfish.  You've  always 
done  everything  I've  asked,  even  difficult  things.  This 
is  quite  easy.  Just  lie  and  think  about  me  till  I  come 
back." 

He  bent  over  the  bed  and  kissed  her  gently. 

"Ah !"  she  sighed.  There  was  a  flacon  on  the  table 
by  the  bed.  He  expected  it  to  be  jasmine.  It  was  lav- 
ender water;  he  drenched  her  hair  and  brow  and 
hands. 

"That's  nice,"  said  she.  "I'm  not  really  ill.  I  think 
it's  nice  to  be  ill.  Quite  still  do  you  mean,  like  that?" 

She  folded  her  hands,  the  white  roses  still  clasped. 
The  white  bed,  the  white  dress,  the  white  flowers.  Hor- 
rible! 

"Yes,"  he  said  firmly,  "just  like  that.  I  shall  be 
back  in  five  minutes." 

He  was  not  gone  three.  He  came  back  and — till  the 
doctor  came,  summoned  by  the  concierge — he  sat  by 
her,  holding  her  hands,  covering  her  with  furs  from 
the  wardrobe  when  she  shivered,  bathing  her  wrists 
with  perfumed  water  when  she  threw  off  the  furs  and 
spoke  of  the  fire  that  burned  in  her  secret  heart  of  cold 
clouds. 

When  the  doctor  came  he  went  out  by  that  excel- 
lent Irishman's  direction  and  telegraphed  for  a  nurse. 

Then  he  waited  in  the  cool  shaded  sitting-room, 
among  the  flowers.  This  was  where  he  had  hit  her — as 
she  said.  There  on  the  divan  she  had  cried,  leaning 
her  head  against  his  sleeve.  Here,  half-way  to  the 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          297 

door,  they  had  kissed  each  other.  No,  he  would  cer- 
tainly not  go  to  England  while  she  was  ill.  He  felt 
sufficiently  like  a  murderer  already.  But  he  would 
write.  He  glanced  at  her  writing-table. 

A  little  pang  pricked  him,  and  drove  him  to  the  bal- 
cony. 

"No,"  he  said,  "if  we  are  to  hit  people,  at  least  let 
us  hit  them  fairly."  But  all  the  same  he  found  him- 
self playing  with  the  word-puzzle  whose  solution  was 
the  absolutely  right  letter  to  Betty's  father,  asking  her 
hand  in  marriage. 

"Well,"  he  asked  the  doctor  who  closed  softly  the 
door  of  the  bedroom  and  came  forward,  "is  it  brain- 
fever?" 

"Holy  Ann,  no!  Brain  fever's  a  fell  disease  in- 
vented by  novelists — I  never  met  it  in  all  my  experi- 
ence. The  doctors  in  novels  have  special  advantages. 
No,  it's  influenza — pretty  severe  touch  too.  She  ought 
to  have  been  in  bed  days  ago.  She'll  want  careful  look- 
ing after." 

"I  see,"  said  Vernon.     "Any  danger?" 

"There's  always  danger,  Lord — Saint-Croix  isn't 
it?" 

"I  have  not  the  honour  to  be  Lady  St.  Craye's  hus- 
band," said  Vernon  equably.  "I  was  merely  calling, 
and  she  seemed  so  ill  that  I  took  upon  myself  to — " 

"I  see — I  see.  Well,  if  you  don't  mind  taking  on 
yourself  to  let  her  husband  know?  It's  a  nasty  case. 
Temperature  104.  Perhaps  her  husband  'ud  be  as  well 
here  as  anywhere." 

"He's  dead,"  said  Vernon. 

"Oh!"  said  the  doctor  with  careful  absence  of  ex- 
pression. "Get  some  woman  to  put  her  to  bed  and  to 
stay  with  her  till  the  nurse  comes.  She's  in  a  very 


298          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

excitable  state.  Good  afternoon.  I'll  look  in  after  din- 
ner." 

When  Vernon  had  won  the  concierge  to  the  desired 
service,  had  seen  the  nurse  installed,  had  dined,  called 
for  news  of  Lady  St.  Craye,  learned  that  she  was  "ton- 
jours  tres  souffrante,"  he  went  home,  pulled  a  table 
into  the  middle  of  his  large,  bare,  hot  studio,  and  sat 
down  to  write  to  the  Reverend  Cecil  Underwood. 

"I  mean  to  do  it,"  he  told  himself,  "and  it  can't  hurt 
her  my  doing  it  now  instead  of  a  month  ahead,  when 
she's  well  again.  In  fact,  it's  better  for  all  of  us  to  get 
it  settled  one  way  or  another  while  she's  not  caring 
about  anything." 

So  he  wrote.  And  he  wrote  a  great  deal,  though  the 
letter  that  at  last  he  signed  was  quite  short : 

My  Dear  Sir: 

I  have  the  honour  to  ask  the  hand  of  your 
daughter  in  marriage.  When  you  asked  me,  most 
properly,  my  intentions,  I  told  you  that  I  was 
betrothed  to  another  lady.  This  is  not  now  the 
case.  And  I  have  found  myself  wholly  unable  to 
forget  the  impression  made  upon  me  last  year  by 
Miss  Desmond.  My  income  is  about  £1,700  a 
year,  and  increases  yearly.  I  beg  to  apologise  for 
anything  which  may  have  annoyed  you  in  my  con- 
duct last  year,  and  to  assure  you  that  my  esteem 
and  affection  for  Miss  Desmond  are  lasting  and 
profound,  and  that,  should  she  do  me  the  honour 
to  accept  my  proposal,  I  shall  devote  my  life's  ef- 
forts to  secure  her  happiness. 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

EUSTACE  VERNON. 


299 

"That  ought  to  do  the  trick,"  he  told  himself.  "Talk 
of  old  world  courtesy  and  ceremonial!  Anyhow,  I 
shall  know  whether  she's  at  Long  Barton  by  the  time 
it  takes  to  get  an  answer.  If  it's  two  days,  she's  there. 
If  it's  longer  she  isn't.  He'll  send  my  letter  on  to  her 
— unless  he  suppresses  it.  Your  really  pious  people  are 
so  shockingly  unscrupulous." 

There  is  nothing  so  irretrievable  as  a  posted  letter. 
This  came  home  to  Vernon  as  the  envelope  dropped  on 
the  others  in  the  box  at  the  Cafe  du  D6me — came  home 
to  him  rather  forlornly. 

Next  morning  he  called  with  more  roses  for  Lady 
St.  Craye,  pinky  ones  this  time. 

"Milady  was  toujours  ires  souffrante.  It  would  be 
ten  days,  at  the  least,  before  Milady  could  receive,  even 
a  very  old  friend,  like  Monsieur." 

The  letter  reached  Long  Barton  between  the  Guar- 
dian and  a  catalogue  of  Some  Rare  Books.  The  Rev- 
erend Cecil  read  it  four  times.  He  was  trying  to  be 
just.  At  first  he  thought  he  would  write  "No"  and  tell 
Betty  years  later.  But  the  young  man  had  seen  the 
error  of  his  ways.  And  £1,700  a  year! — 

The  surprise  visit  with  which  the  Reverend  Cecil 
had  always  intended  to  charm  his  step-daughter  sud- 
denly found  its  date  quite  definitely  fixed.  This  could 
not  be  written.  He  must  go  to  the  child  and  break  it 
to  her  very  gently,  very  tenderly — find  out  quite  deli- 
cately and  cleverly  exactly  what  her  real  feelings  were. 
Girls  were  so  shy  about  those  things. 

Miss  Julia  Desmond  had  wired  him  from  Suez  that 
she  would  be  in  Paris  next  week — had  astonishingly 
asked  him  to  meet  her  there. 

"Paris  next  Tuesday  Gare  St.  Lazare  6:45.  Come 
and  see  Betty  via  Dieppe,"  had  been  her  odd  message. 


300         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

He  had  not  meant  to  go — not  next  Tuesday.  He  was 
afraid  of  Miss  Julia  Desmond.  He  would  rather  have 
his  Lizzie  all  to  himself.  But  now — 

He  wrote  a  cablegram  to  Miss  Julia  Desmond :  "Care 
Captain  S.  S.  Urania,  Brindisi :  Will  meet  you  in 
Paris."  Then  he  thought  that  this  might  seem  to  the 
telegraph  people  not  quite  nice,  so  he  changed  it  to: 
"Going  to  see  Lizzie  Tuesday." 

The  fates  that  had  slept  so  long  were  indeed  waking 
up  and  beginning  to  take  notice  of  Betty.  Destiny, 
like  the  most  attractive  of  the  porters  at  the  Gare  de 
Lyon,  "s'occupait  d'ette," 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

The  concierge  sat  at  her  window  under  the  arch  of 
the  porte-cochere  at  57  Boulevard  Montparnasse.  She 
sat  gazing  across  its  black  shade  to  the  sunny  street. 
She  was  thinking.  The  last  twentv-four  hours  had 
given  food  for  thought. 

The  trams  passed  and  repassed,  people  in  carriages, 
people  on  foot — the  usual  crowd — not  interesting. 

But  the  open  carriage  suddenly  drawn  up  at  the  other 
side  of  the  broad  pavement  was  interesting,  very.  For 
it  contained  the  lady  who  had  given  the  100  francs,  and 
had  promised  another  fifty  on  the  first  of  the  month. 
She  had  never  come  with  that  fifty,  and  the  concierge 
having  given  up  all  Hope  of  seeing  her  again,  had  acted 
accordingly. 

Lady  St.  Craye,  pale  as  the  laces  of  her  sea-green 
cambric  gown,  came  slowly  up  the  cobble-paved  way 
and  halted  at  the  window. 

"Good  morning,  Madame,"  she  said.  "I  bring  you 
the  little  present." 

The  concierge  was  genuinely  annoyed.  Why  had 
301 


302          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

she  not  waited  a  little  longer?  Still,  all  was  not  yet 
lost. 

"Come  in,  Madame,"  she  said.  "Madame  has  the 
air  very  fatigued." 

"I  have  been  very  ill,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye. 

"If  Madame  will  give  herself  the  trouble  to  go  round 
by  the  other  door — "  The  concierge  went  round  and 
met  her  visitor  in  the  hall,  and  brought  her  into  the 
closely  furnished  little  room  with  the  high  wooden  bed, 
the  round  table,  the  rack  for  letters,  and  the  big  lamp. 

"Will  Madame  give  herself  the  trouble  to  sit  down  ? 
Would  it  be  permitted  to  offer  Madame  something — a 
little  glass  of  sugared  water?  No?  I  regret  infinitely 
not  having  known  that  Madame  was  suffering.  I 
should  have  acted  otherwise.' 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  asked  quickly.  "You 
haven't  told  anyone  that  I  was  here  that  night?" 

"Do  not  believe  it  for  an  instant,"  said  the  woman 
reassuringly.  "No — after  Madame's  goodness  I  held 
myself  wholly  at  the  disposition  of  Madame.  But 
when  the  day  appointed  passed  itself  without  your  visit, 
I  said  to  myself :  'The  little  affaire  has  ceased  to  inter- 
est this  lady;  she  is  weary  of  it!'  My  grateful  heart 
found  itself  free  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  of 
others." 

"Tell  me  exactly,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  "what  you 
have  done." 

"It  was  but  last  week,"  the  concierge  went  on,  re- 
arranging a  stiff  bouquet  in  exactly  the  manner  of  an 
embarrassed  ingenue  on  the  stage,  "but  only  last  week 
that  I  received  a  letter  from  Mademoiselle  Desmond. 
She  sent  me  her  address." 

She  paused.  Lady  St.  Craye  laid  the  bank  note  on 
the  table. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         303 

"Madame  wants  the  address?" 

"I  have  the  address.  I  want  to  know  whether  you 
have  given  it  to  anyone  else." 

"No,  Madame,"  said  the  concierge  with  simple 
pride,  "when  you  have  given  a  thing  you  have  it  not 
any  longer." 

"Well — pardon  me — have  you  sold  it?" 

"For  the  same  good  reason,  no,  Madame." 

"Take  the  note,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  "and  tell  me 
what  you  have  done  with  the  address." 

"This  gentleman,  whom  Madame  did  not  wish  to 
know  that  she  had  been  here  that  night — " 

"I  didn't  wish  anyone  to  know !" 

"Perfectly :  this  gentleman  comes  without  ceasing  to 
ask  of  me  news  of  Mademoiselle  Desmond.  And  always 
I  have  no  news.  But  when  Mademoiselle  writes  me :  'I 
am  at  the  hotel  such  and  such — send  to  me,  I  pray  you, 
letters  if  there  are  any  of  them/ — then  when  Monsieur 
makes  his  eternal  demand  I  reply:  'I  have  now  the 
address  of  Mademoiselle, — not  to  give,  but  to  send  her 
letters.  If  Monsieur  had  the  idea  to  cause  to  be  expe- 
dited a  little  billet?  I  am  all  at  the  service  of  Mon- 
sieur/ ' 

"So  he  wrote  to  her.    Have  you  sent  on  the  letter?" 

"Alas,  yes!"  replied  the  concierge  with  hearfelt  re- 
gret. "I  kept  it  during  a  week,  hoping  always  to  see 
Madame — but  yesterday,  even,  I  put  it  at  the  post. 
Otherwise.  ...  I  beg  Madame  to  have  the  goodness 
to  understand  that  I  attach  myself  entirely  to  her  inter- 
ests. You  may  rely  on  me." 

"It  is  useless,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye;  "the  affair  if 
ceasing  to  interest  me." 

"Do  not  say  that.  Wait  only  a  little  till  you  Have 
heard.  It  is  not  only  Monsieur  that  occupies  himself 


304         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

with  Mademoiselle.  Last  night  arrives  an  aunt;  also 
a  father.  They  ask  for  Mademoiselle,  are  consternated 
when  they  learn  of  her  departing.  They  run  all  Paris 
at  the  research  of  her.  The  father  lodges  at  the  Haute 
Loire.  He  is  a  priest  it  appears.  Madame  the  aunt 
occupies  the  ancient  apartment  of  Mademoiselle  Des- 
mond." 

"An  instant,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye ;  "let  me  reflect." 

The  concierge  ostentatiously  went  back  to  her  flow- 
ers, 

"You  have  not  given  them  Miss  Desmond's  ad- 
dress?" 

"Madame  forgets,"  said  the  concierge,  wounded  vir- 
tue bristling  in  her  voice,  "that  I  was,  for  the  moment, 
devoted  to  the  interest  of  Monsieur.  No.  I  am  a  loyal 
soul.  I  have  told  nothing.  Only  to  despatch  the  let- 
ter. Behold  all!" 

"I  will  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  offering  you  a 
little  present  next  week,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye;  "it  is 
only  that  you  should  say  nothing — nothing — and  send 
no  more  letters.  And — the  address  ?" 

"Madame  knows  it — by  what  she  says." 

"Yes,  but  I  want  to  know  if  the  address  you  have  is 
the  same  that  I  have.  Hotel  Chevillon,  Grez  sur  Loing. 
Is  it  so?" 

"It  is  exact.  I  thank  you,  Madame.  Madame 
would  do  well  to  return  chez  elle  and  to  repose  herself  a 
little.  Madame  is  all  pale." 

"Is  the  aunt  in  Miss  Desmond's  rooms  now  ?" 

"Yes ;  she  writes  letters  without  end,  and  telegrams ; 
and  the  priest-father  he  runs  with  them  like  a  sad  old 
black  dog  that  has  not  the  habit  of  towns." 

"I  shall  go  up  and  see  her,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye, 
"and  I  shall  most  likely  give  her  the  address.  But  do 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         305 

not  give  yourself  anxiety.  You  will  gain  more  by  me 
than  by  any  of  the  others.  They  are  not  rich.  Me,  I 
am,  Heaven  be  praised." 

She  went  out  and  along  the  courtyard.  At  the  foot 
of  the  wide  shallow  stairs  she  paused  and  leaned  on  the 
dusty  banisters. 

"I  feel  as  weak  as  any  rat,"  she  said,  "but  I  must  go 
through  with  it — I  must." 

She  climbed  the  stairs,  and  stood  outside  the  brown 
door.  The  nails  that  had  held  the  little  card  "Miss  E. 
Desmond"  still  stuck  there,  but  only  four  corners  of 
the  card  remained. 

The  door  was  not  shut — it  always  shut  unwillingly. 
She  tapped. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  clear,  pleasant  voice.  And  she 
went  in. 

The  room  was  not  as  she  had  seen  it  on  the  two  occa- 
sions when  it  had  been  the  battle  ground  where  she  and 
Betty  fought  for  a  man.  Plaid  travelling-rugs  covered 
the  divans.  A  gold-faced  watch  in  a  leather  bracelet 
ticked  on  the  table  among  scattered  stationery.  A  lady 
in  a  short  sensible  dress  rose  from  the  table,  and  the 
room  was  scented  with  the  smell  of  Hungarian  cigar- 
ettes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  it  was  my  brother- 
in-law.  Did  you  call  to  see  Miss  Desmond?  She  is 
away  for  a  short  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye.  "  I  know.  I  wanted  to 
see  you.  The  concierge  told  me — " 

"Oh,  these  concierges!  They  tell  everything!  It's 
what  they  were  invented  for,  I  believe.  And  you 
wanted — "  She  stopped,  looked  hard  at  the  young 
woman  and  went  on:  "What  you  want  is  a  good  stiff 
brandy  and  soda.  Here,  where's  the  head  of  the  pin? 


3o6         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

— I  always  think  it  such  a  pity  bonnets  went  out.  One 
could  undo  strings.  That's  it.  Now,  put  your  feet  up. 
That's  right,  I'll  be  back  in  half  a  minute." 

Lady  St.  Craye  found  herself  lying  at  full  length  on 
Betty's  divan,  her  feet  covered  with  a  Tussore  driving- 
rug,  her  violet-wreathed  hat  on  a  table  at  some  dis- 
tance. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  just  as  well.  She  could 
get  back  a  little  strength — she  could  try  to  arrange 
coherently  what  she  meant  to  say.  No:  it  was  not 
unfair  to  the  girl.  She  ought  to  be  taken  care  of.  And, 
besides,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  "unfair."  All  was 
fair  in — Well,  she  was  fighting  for  her  life.  All  was 
fair  when  one  was  fighting  for  one's  life — that  was 
what  she  meant.  Meantime,  to  lie  quite  still  and  draw 
long,  even  breaths — telling  oneself  at  each  breath :  "I 
am  quite  well,  I  am  quite  strong — "  seemed  best. 

There  was  a  sound,  a  dull  plop,  the  hiss  and  fizzle  of 
a  spurting  syphon,  then : 

"Drink  this :  that's  right.    I've  got  you." 

A  strong  arm  round  her  shoulders — something  buzz- 
ing and  spitting  in  a  glass  under  her  nose. 

"Drink  it  up,  there's  a  good  child." 

She  drank.    A  long  breath. 

"Now  the  rest."    She  was  obedient. 

"Now  shut  your  eyes  and  don't  bother.  When  you're 
better  we'll  talk." 

Silence — save  for  the  fierce  scratching  of  a  pen. 

"I'm  better,"  announced  Lady  St.  Craye  as  the  pen 
paused  for  the  folding  of  the  third  letter. 

The  short  skirted  woman  came  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  divan,  very  upright. 

"Well  then.  You  oughtn't  to  be  out,  you  poor  little 
thing." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         307 

The  words  brought  the  tears  to  the  eyes  of  one 
weak  with  the  self-pitying  weakness  of  convalescence. 

"I  wanted—" 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Betty's  ?" 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know." 

"A  hated  rival  perhaps,"  said  the  elder  woman  cheer- 
fully. "You  didn't  come  to  do  her  a  good  turn,  any- 
how, did  you?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  Again  this  was  all  that  would 
come. 

"I  do,  though.  Well,  which  of  us  is  to  begin  ?  You 
see,  child,  the  difficulty  is  that  we  neither  of  us  know 
how  much  the  other  knows  and  we  don't  want  to  give 
ourselves  away.  It's  so  awkward  to  talk  when  it's  like 
that." 

"I  think  I  know  more  than  you  do.  I — you  needn't 
think  I  want  to  hurt  her.  I  should  have  liked  her 
awfully,  if  it  hadn't  been — " 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  man.  Yes,  I  see.  Who 
was  he?" 

Lady  St.  Craye  felt  absolutely  defenceless.  Besides, 
what  did  it  matter?" 

"Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  now  we're  getting  to  the  horses!  My  dear 
child,  don't  look  so  guilty.  You're  not  the  first;  you 
won't  be  the  last — especially  with  eyes  the  colour  his 
are.  And  so  you  hate  Betty  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it — 
all  the  truth." 

"You  can't,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "no  woman  can. 
But  I'll  give  you  credit  for  trying  to,  if  you'll  go 
straight  ahead.  But  first  of  all — how  long  is  it  since 
you  saw  her?" 

"Nearly  a  month." 


308         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Well ;  she's  disappeared.  Her  father  and  I  got  here 
last  night.  She's  gone  away  and  left  no  address.  She 
was  living  with  a  Madame  Gautier  and — " 

"Madame  Gautier  died  last  October,"  said  Lady  St. 
Craye — "the  twenty-fifth." 

"I  had  a  letter  from  her  brother — it  got  me  in  Bom- 
bay. But  I  couldn't  believe  it.  And  who  has  Betty 
been  living  with  ?" 

"Look  here,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye.  "I  came  to  give 
the  whole  thing  away,  and  hand  her  over  to  you.  I 
know  where  she  is.  But  now  I  don't  want  to.  Her 
father's  a  brute,  I  know." 

"Not  he,"  said  Miss  Desmond;  "he's  only  a  man 
and  a  very,  very  silly  one.  I'll  pledge  you  my  word 
he'll  never  approach  her,  whatever  she's  done.  It's  not 
anything  too  awful  for  words,  I'm  certain.  Come,  tell 
me." 

Lady  St.  Craye  told  Betty's  secret  at  some  length. 

"Did  she  tell  you  this?" 

"No." 

"He  did  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  men  are  darlings !  The  soul  of  honour — unsul- 
lied blades!  My  word!  Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

She  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"I  suppose  I'm  very  dishonourable  too,"  said  Lady 
St.  Craye. 

"You?    Oh  no,  you're  only  a  woman! — And  then?" 

"Well,  at  last  I  asked  her  to  go  away,  and  she  went." 

"Well,  that  was  decent  of  her,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"And  now  you're  going  to  tell  me  where  she  is  and 
I'm  to  take  her  home  and  keep  her  out  of  his  way.  Is 
that  it?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         309 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  very  truly, 
"why  I  came  to  you  at  all.  Because  it's  all  no  good. 
He's  written  and  proposed  for  her  to  her  father — and 
if  she  cares — " 

"Well,  if  she  cares — and  he  cares —  Do  you  really 
mean  that  you'd  care  to  marry  a  man  who's  in  love 
with  another  woman?" 

"I'd  marry  him  if  he  was  in  love  with  fifty  other 
women." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "I  should  say 
you  were  the  very  wife  for  him." 

"She  isn't,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  sitting  up.  "I  feel 
like  a  silly  school-girl  talking  to  you  like  this.  I  think 
I'll  go  now.  I'm  not  really  so  silly  as  I  seem.  I've  been 
ill — influenza,  you  know — and  I  got  so  frightfully  tired. 
And  I  don't  think  I'm  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be.  I've 
always  thought  I  was  strong  enough  to  play  any  part 
I  wanted  to  play.  But — you've  been  very  kind.  I'll 
go — "  She  lay  back. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Miss  Desmond  briskly.  "You 
are  a  school-girl  compared  with  me,  you  know.  I  sup- 
pose you've  been  trying  to  play  the  role  of  the  design- 
ing heroine — to  part  true  lovers  and  so  on,  and  then  you 
found  you  couldn't." 

"They're  not  true  lovers,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye  eag- 
erly; "that's  just  it.  She'd  never  make  him  happy. 
She's  too  young  and  too  innocent.  And  when  she 
found  out  what  a  man  like  him  is  like,  she'd  break  her 
heart.  And  he  told  me  he'd  be  happier  with  me  than 
he  ever  had  been  with  her." 

"Was  that  true,  or—?" 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was  true  enough,  though  he  said  it. 
You've  met  him — he  told  me.  But  you  don't  know 
him." 


310         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I  know  his  kind  though,"  said  Miss  Desmond. 
"And  so  you  love  him  very  much  indeed,  and  you  don't 
care  for  anything  else, — and  you  think  you  understand 
him, — and  you  could  forgive  him  everything?  Then 
you  may  get  him  yet,  if  you  care  so  very  much — that 
is,  if  Betty  doesn't." 

"She  doesn't.  She  thinks  she  docs,  but  she  doesn't. 
If  only  he  hadn't  written  to  her — " 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "I  was  a  fool  myself 
once,  about  a  man  with  eyes  his  colour.  You  can't  tell 
me  anything  that  I  don't  know.  Docs  he  know  how 
much  you  care?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  that's  a  pity — still — Well,  is  there  anything  else 
you  want  to  tell  me  ?" 

"I  don't  want  to  tell  anyone  anything.  Only — when 
she  said  she'd  go  away,  I  advised  her  where  to  go — 
and  I  told  her  of  a  quiet  place — and  Mr.  Temple's 
there.  He's  the  other  man  who  admires  her." 

"I  see.  How  Machiavelian  of  you!" — Miss  Des- 
mond touched  the  younger  woman's  hand  with  brusque 
gentleness — "And —  ?" 

"And  I  didn't  quite  tell  her  the  truth  about  Mr.  Ver- 
non  and  me,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  wallowing  in  the 
abject  joys  of  the  confessional.  "And  I  am  a  beast  and 
not  fit  to  live.  But,"  she  added  with  the  true  penitent's 
instinct  of  self-defence,  "I  know  it's  only — oh,  I  don't 
know  what — not  love,  with  her.  And  it's  my  life." 

"Yes.     And  what  about  him?" 

"It's  not  love  with  him.  At  least  it  is — but  she'd 
bore  him.  It's  really  his  waking-up  time.  He's  been 
playing  the  game  just  for  counters  all  the  while.  Now 
he's  learning  to  play  with  gold." 

"And  it'll  stay  learnt.    I  see,"  said  Miss  Desmond. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         311 

"Look  here,  I  like  you.  I  know  we  shouldn't  have 
said  all  we  have  if  you  weren't  ill,  and  I  weren't 
anxious.  But  I'm  with  you  in  one  thing.  I  don't  want 
him  to  marry  Betty.  She  wouldn't  understand  an  art- 
ist in  emotion.  Is  this  Temple  straight?" 

"As  a  yardstick." 

"And  as  wooden  ?  Well,  that's  better.  I'm  on  your 
side.  But — we've  been  talking  without  the  veils  on — 
tell  me  one  thing.  Are  you  sure  you  could  get  him  if 
Betty  were  out  of  the  way?" 

"He  kissed  me  once — since  he's  loved  her,"  said 
Lady  St.  Craye,  "and  then  I  knew  I  could.  He  liked 
me  better  than  he  liked  her — in  all  the  other  ways — 
before.  I'm  a  shameless  idiot;  it's  really  only  because 
I'm  so  feeble." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  the  glass,  putting  on  her 
hat. 

"I  do  respect  a  woman  who  has  the  courage  to  speak 
the  truth  to  another  woman,"  said  Miss  Desmond.  "I 
hope  you'll  get  him — though  it's  not  a  very  kind  wish." 

Lady  St.  Craye  let  herself  go  completely  in  a  phrase 
whose  memory  stung  and  rankled  for  many  a  long  day. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "even  if  he  gets  tired  of  me,  I  shall 
have  got  his  children.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
want  a  child.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Miss  Desmond.  "No — of  course  I 
don't" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  FOREST. 

Nothing  lifts  the  heart  like  the  sense  of  a  great  self- 
sacrifice  nobly  made.  Betty  was  glad  that  she  could 
feel  so  particularly  noble.  It  was  a  great  help. 

"He  was  mine,"  she  told  herself ;  "he  meant  to  be — 
And  I  have  given  him  up  to  her.  It  hurts — yes — but  I 
did  the  right  thing." 

She  thought  she  hoped  that  he  would  soon  forget 
her.  And  almost  all  that  was  Betty  tried  quite  sin- 
cerely, snatching  at  every  help,  to  forget  him. 

Sometimes  the  Betty  that  Betty  did  not  want  to  be 
would,  quite  deliberately  and  of  set  purpose,  take  out 
the  nest  of  hungry  memories,  look  at  them,  play  with 
them,  and  hand  over  her  heart  for  them  to  feed  on. 
But  always  when  she  had  done  this  she  felt,  after- 
wards, a  little  sorry,  a  little  ashamed.  It  was  too  like 
the  diary  at  Long  Barton. 

Consciously  or  unconsciously  one  must  make  some 
concessions  to  every  situation  or  every  situation  would 
be  impossible.  Temple  was  here — interested,  pleased 
to  see  her,  glad  to  talk  to  her.  But  he  was  not  at  all 
inclined  to  be  in  love  with  her:  that  had  been  only  a 
silly  fancy  of  hers — in  Paris.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  by  now  who  it  was  that  he  cared  for.  And  it 
wasn't  Betty.  Probably  she  hadn't  even  been  one  of 
the  two  he  came  to  Grez  to  think  about.  He  was  only 

312 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          313 

a  good  friend — and  she  wanted  a  good  friend.  If  he 
were  not  just  a  good  friend  the  situation  would  be  im- 
possible. And  Betty  chose  that  the  situation  should  be 
possible.  For  it  was  pleasant.  It  was  a  shield  and  a 
shelter  from  all  the  thoughts  that  she  wanted  to  hide 
from. 

"If  she  thinks  I'm  going  to  break  my  heart  about 
him,  she's  mistaken.  And  so's  He.  I  must  be  miser- 
able for  a  bit,"  said  Betty  bravely,  "but  I'll  not  be  mis- 
erable forever,  so  he  needn't  think  it.  Of  course,  I 
shall  never  care  for  anyone  ever  again — unless  he  were 
to  love  me  for  years  and  years  before  he  ever  said  a 
word,  and  then  I  might  say  I  would  try. — And  try. 
But  fall  in  love? — Never  again!  Oh,  good  gracious, 
there  he  is, — and  I've  not  begun  to  get  ready." 

Temple  was  whistling  Deux  Amants  very  softly  in 
the  courtyard  below.  She  put  her  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"I  shan't  be  two  minutes,"  she  said,  "You  might  get 
the  basket  from  Madame ;  and  my  sketching  things  are 
on  the  terrace  all  ready  strapped  up." 

The  hoofs  of  the  smart  gray  pony  slipped  and  rat- 
tled on  the  cobble-stones  of  the  hotel  entry. 

"Au  revoir:  amuse  yourselves  well,  my  children." 
Madame  Chevillon  stood,  one  hand  on  fat  hip,  the 
other  shading  old  eyes  that  they  might  watch  the  prog- 
ress of  the  cart  up  the  blinding  whiteness  of  the  village 
street. 

"To  the  forest,  and  yet  again  to  the  forest  and  to  the 
forest  always,"  she  said,  turning  into  the  darkened  bil- 
liard room.  "Marie,  beware,  thou,  of  the  forest.  The 
good  God  created  it  express  for  the  lovers, — but  it  is 
permitted  to  the  devil  to  promenade  himself  there 
also." 


314          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Those  two  there,"  said  Marie — "it  is  very  certain 
that  they  are  in  love?" 

"How  otherwise?"  said  Madame.  "The  good  God 
made  us  women  that  the  men  should  be  in  love  with  us 
— and  afterwards,  to  take  care  of  the  children.  There 
is  no  other  use  that  a  man  has  for  a  woman.  Friend- 
ship? The  Art? — Bah!  When  a  man  wants  those  he 
demands  them  of  a  man.  Of  a  woman  he  demands  but 
love,  and  one  gives  it  to  him — one  gives  it  to  him  with- 
out question!" 

The  two  who  had  departed  for  the  forest  drove  on 
through  the  swimming,  spinning  heat,  in  silence. 

It  was  not  till  they  reached  the  little  old  well  by  Mar- 
lotte  that  Betty  spoke. 

"Don't  let's  work  to-day,  Mr.  Temple,"  she  said. 
"My  hands  are  so  hot  I  could  never  hold  a  brush.  And 
your  sketch  is  really  finished,  you  know." 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?"  asked  Temple: 
"river?" 

"Oh,  no, — not  now  that  we've  started  for  the  for- 
est! Its  feelings  would  be  hurt  if  we  turned  back.  I 
am  sure  it  loves  us  to  love  it,  although  it  is  so  big — 
Like  God,  you  know." 

"Yes:  I'm  sure  it  does.  Do  you  really  think  God 
cares  ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Betty,  "because  everything  would 
be  so  silly  if  He  didn't,  you  know.  I  believe  He  likes 
us  to  love  him,  and  what's  more,  I  believe  He  likes  us  to 
love  all  the  pretty  things  He's  made — trees  and  rivers 
and  sunsets  and  seas." 

"And  each  ether,"  said  Temple,  and  flushed  to  the 
ears:  "human  beings,  I  mean,  of  course,"  he  adder1 
hastily. 

"Of  course,"  said  Betty,  unconscious  of  the  flush'; 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          315 

"but  religion  tells  you  that — it  doesn't  tell  you  about 
the  little  things.  It  does  say  about  herbs  of  the  field 
and  the  floods  clapping  their  hands  and  all  that — but 
that's  only  His  works  praising  Him,  not  us  loving  all 
His  works.  I  think  He's  most  awfully  pleased  when 
we  love  some  little,  nice,  tiny  thing  that  He  never 
thought  we'd  notice." 

"Did  your  father  teach  you  to  think  like  this  ?" 

"Oh,  dear  no !"  said  Betty.  "He  doesn't  like  the  lit- 
tle pretty  things." 

"It's  odd,"  said  Temple.  "Look  at  those  yellow  roses 
all  over  that  hideous  villa." 

"My  step-father  would  only  see  the  villa.  Well, 
must  we  work  to-day?" 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"I  should  like  to  go  to  those  big  rocks — the  Rochers 
des  Demoiselles,  aren't  they? — and  tie  up  the  pony,  and 
climb  up,  and  sit  in  a  black  shadow  and  look  out  over 
the  green  tops  of  the  trees.  You  see  things  when 
you're  idle  that  you  never  see  when  you're  working, 
even  if  you're  trying  to  paint  those  very  things." 

So,  by  and  by,  the  gray  pony  was  unharnessed  and 
tied  to  a  tree  in  a  cool,  grassy  place  where  he  also  could 
be  happy,  and  the  two  others  took  the  winding  stony 
path. 

A  turn  in  the  smooth-worn  way  brought  them  to  a 
platform  overhanging  the  precipice  that  fell  a  sheer 
thirty  feet  to  the  tops  of  the  trees  on  the  slope  below. 
White,  silvery  sand  carpeted  the  ledge,  and  on  the  sand 
the  shadow  of  a  leaning  rock  fell  blue. 

"Here"  said  Betty,  and  sank  down.  Her  sketch- 
book scooped  the  sand  with  its  cover.  "Oh,  I  am  hot !" 
She  threw  off  her  hat. 

"You  don't  look  it,"  said  Temple,  and  pulled  the  big 


316          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

bottle  of  weak  claret  and  water  from  the  luncheon  bas- 
ket. 

"Drink!"  he  said,  offering  the  little  glass  when  he 
had  filled  it. 

Betty  drank,  in  little  sips. 

"How  extraordinarily  nice  it  is  to  drink  when  you're 
thirsty,"  she  said,  "and  how  heavenly  this  shadow  is." 

A  long  silence.  Temple  rilled  and  lighted  a  pipe. 
From  a  slope  of  dry  grass  a  little  below  them  came  the 
dusty  rattle  of  grasshoppers'  talk. 

"It  is  very  good  here,"  said  Betty.  "Oh,  how  glad 
I  am  I  came  away  from  Paris.  Everything  looks  dif- 
ferent here — I  mean  the  things  that  look  as  if  they  mat- 
tered there  don't  matter  here — and  the  things  that 
didn't  matter  there — oh,  here,  they  do !" 

"Yes,"  said  Temple,  making  little  mounds  of  sand 
with  the  edge  of  his  hand  as  he  lay,  "I  never  expected 
to  have  such  days  in  this  world  as  I've  had  here  with 
you.  We've  grown  to  be  very  good  friends  here, 
haven't  we?" 

"We  were  very  good  friends  in  Paris,"  said  Betty, 
remembering  the  letter  that  had  announced  his  depar- 
ture. 

"But  it  wasn't  the  same,"  he  persisted.  "When  did 
we  talk  in  Paris  as  we've  talked  here?" 

"I  talked  to  you,  even  in  Paris,  more  than  I've  ever 
talked  to  anyone  else,  all  the  same,"  said  Betty. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said ;  "that's  the  nicest  thing  you've 
ever  said  to  me." 

"It  wasn't  meant  to  be  nice,"  said  Betty;  "it's  true. 
Don't  you  know  there  are  some  people  you  never  can 
talk  to  without  wondering  what  they'll  think  of  you, 
and  whether  you  hadn't  better  have  said  something 
else?  It's  nothing  to  do  with  whether  you  like  them  or 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         317 

not,"  she  went  on,  thinking  of  talks  with  Vernon,  many 
talks — and  in  all  of  them  she  had  been  definitely  and 
consciously  on  guard.  "You  may  like  people  quite 
frightfully,  and  yet  you  can't  talk  to  them." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  you  couldn't  talk  to  a  person 
you  disliked,  could  you?  Real  talk,  I  mean?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Betty.  "Do  you  know  I'm 
dreadfully  hungry !" 

It  was  after  lunch  that  Temple  said : 

"When  are  you  going  home,  Miss  Desmond?"  She 
looked  up,  for  his  use  of  her  name  was  rare. 

"I  -don't  know :  some  time,"  she  answered  absently. 
But  the  question  ran  through  her  mind  like  a  needle 
drawing  after  it  the  thread  on  which  were  strung  all 
the  little  longings  for  Long  Barton — for  the  familiar 
fields  and  flowers,  that  had  gathered  there  since  she  first 
saw  the  silver  may  and  the  golden  broom  at  Bourron 
station.  That  was  nearly  a  month  ago.  What  a  month 
it  had  been — the  gleaming  river,  the  neat  intimate  sim- 
plicity of  the  little  culture,  white  roads,  and  roses  and 
rocks,  and  more  than  all — trees,  and  trees  and  trees 
again. 

And  with  all  this — Temple.  He  lodged  at  Montigny, 
true.  And  she  at  Grez.  But  each  day  brought  to  her 
door  the  best  companion  in  the  world.  He  had  never 
even  asked  how  she  came  to  be  at  Grez.  After  that 
first,  "Where's  your  party?"  he  had  guarded  his  lips. 
It  had  seemed  so  natural,  and  so  extremely  fortunate 
that  he  should  be  here.  If  she  had  been  all  alone  she 
would  have  allowed  herself  to  think  too  much  of  Ver- 
non— of  what  might  have  been. 

"I  am  going  to  England  next  week !"  he  said.  Betty 
was  shocked  to  perceive  that  this  news  hurt  her.  Well, 
why  shouldn't  it  hurt  her?  She  wasn't  absolutely  in- 


3i8         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

sensible  to  friendship,  she  supposed.  And  sensibility  to 
friendship  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  On  the  con- 
trary. 

"I  shall  miss  you  most  awfully,"  said  she  with  the 
air  of  one  flaunting  a  flag. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  home,"  he  said.  "Haven't  you  had 
enough  of  your  experiment,  or  whatever  it  was,  yet?" 

"I  thought  you'd  given  up  interfering,"  she 
said  crossly.  At  least  she  meant  to  speak  crossly. 

"I  thought  I  could  say  anything  to  you  now  without! 
your — your  not  understanding." 

"So  you  can."    She  was  suddenly  not  cross  again. 

"Ah,  no  I  can't,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  say  things  to 
you  that  I  can't  say  here.  Won't  you  go  home  ?  Won't 
you  let  me  come  to  see  you  there  ?  Say  I  may.  You 
will  let  me  ?" 

If  she  said  Yes — she  refused  to  pursue  that  train  of 
thought  another  inch.  If  she  said  No — then  a  sudden 
end — and  forever  an  end — to  this  good  companionship. 
"I  wish  I  had  never,  never  seen  Him!"  she  told  her- 
self. 

Then  she  found  that  she  was  speaking. 

"The  reason  I  was  all  alone  in  Paris,"  she  was  say- 
ing. The  reason  took  a  long  time  to  expound. — The 
shadow  withdrew  itself  and  they  had  to  shift  the  camp 
just  when  it  came  to  the  part  about  Betty's  first  meet- 
ing with  Temple  himself. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  "I've  done  what  I  meant  to  do — 
and  I'm  a  hateful  liar — and  you'll  never  want  to  speak 
to  me  again.  , 

She  rooted  up  a  fern  and  tore  it  into  little  ribbons. 

"Why  have  you  told  me  all  this?"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         319 

"It  is  because  you  care,  a  little  bit  about — about  my 
thinking  well  of  you?" 

"I  can't  care  about  that,  or  I  shouldn't  have  told  you, 
should  I?  Let's  get  back  home.  The  pony's  lost  by 
this  time,  I  expect." 

"Is  it  because  you  don't  want  to  have  any — any 
secrets  between  us?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Betty,  chin  in  the  air.  "I 
shouldn't  dream  of  telling  you  my  secrets — or  anyone 
else  of  course,  I  mean,"  she  added  politely. 

He  sighed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  go 
home." 

"Why  don't  you  say  you're  disappointed  in  me,  and 
that  you  despise  me,  and  that  you  don't  care  about 
being  friends  any  more,  with  a  girl  who's  told  lies  and 
taken  her  aunt's  money  and  done  everything  wrong 
you  can  think  of  ?  Let's  go  back.  I  don't  want  to  stay 
here  any  more,  with  you  being  silently  contemptuous  23 
hard  as  ever  you  can.  Why  don't  you  say  something  ?' ' 

"I  don't  want  to  say  the  only  thing  I  want  to  say.  I 
don't  want  to  say  it  here.  Won't  you  go  home  and  let 
me  come  and  tell  you  at  Long  Barton  ?" 

"You  do  think  me  horrid.    Why  don't  you  say  so  ?'' 

"No.    I  don't." 

"Then  it's  because  you  don't  care  what  I  am  or  what 
I  do.  I  thought  a  man's  friendship  didn't  mean  much !" 
She  crushed  the  fern  into  a  rough  ball  and  threw  it  over 
the  edge  of  the  rock. 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,"  said  Temple.  "Look  here,  Miss 
Desmond.  I  came  away  from  Paris  because  I  didn't 
know  what  was  the  matter  with  me.  I  didn't  know 
who  it  was  I  really  cared  about.  And  before  I'd  been 
here  one  single  day,  I  knew.  And  then  I  met  you.  And 
I  haven't  said  a  word,  because  you're  here  alone — and 


320         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

besides  I  wanted  you  to  get  used  to  talking  to  me  and 
all  that.  And  now  you  say  I  don't  care.  No,  confound 
it  all,  it's  too  much !  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  marry  me. 
And  I'd  have  waited  any  length  of  time  till  there  was 
a  chance  for  me."  He  had  almost  turned  his  back  on 
her,  and  leaning  his  chin  on  his  elbow  was  looking  out 
over  the  tree-tops  far  below.  "And  now  you've  gone 
and  rushed  me  into  asking  you  now,  when  I  know  there 
isn't  the  least  chance  for  me, — and  anyhow  I  ought  to 
have  held  my  tongue !  And  now  it's  all  no  good,  and 
it's  your  fault.  Why  did  you  say  I  didn't  care?" 

"You  knew  it  was  coming,"  Betty  told  herself, 
"when  he  asked  if  he  might  come  to  Long  Barton  to  see 
you.  You  knew  it.  You  might  have  stopped  it.  And 
you  didn't.  And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

What  she  did  was  to  lean  back  to  reach  another  fern 
— to  pluck  and  smooth  its  fronds. 

"Are  you  very  angry  ?"  asked  Temple  forlornly. 

"No,"  said  Betty ;  "how  could  I  be?  But  I  wish  you 
hadn't.  It's  spoiled  everything." 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  all  that?" 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Betty  very  sincerely,  "but — " 

"Of  course,"  he  said  bitterly.    "I  knew  that." 

"He  doesn't  care  about  me,"  said  Betty:  "he's  en- 
gaged to  someone  else." 

"And  you  care  very  much  ?"  He  kept  his  face  turned 
away. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Betty;  "sometimes  I  think  I'm 
getting  not  to  care  at  all." 

"Then — look  here :  may  I  ask  you  again  some  time, 
and  we'll  go  on  just  like  we  have  been  ?" 

"No,"  said  Betty.  "I'm  going  back  to  England  at 
the  end  of  the  week.  Besides,  you  aren't  quite  sure  it's 
me  you  care  for. —  At  least  yon  weren't  when  you 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         321 

came  away  from  Paris.  How  can  you  be  sure  you're 
sure  now  ?" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  instantly.  "I  think  I 
didn't  understand.  Let's  go  back  now,  shall  we?" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  said,  "don't  let  this  break 
up  everything !  Don't  avoid  me  in  the  little  time  that's 
left.  I  won't  talk  about  it  any  more — I  won't  worry 
you—" 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  and  she  smiled  at  him  a 
little  sadly ;  "you  talk  as  though  I  didn't  know  you." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THE  MIRACLE. 

It  seemed  quite  dark  down  in  the  forest — or  rather,  it 
seemed,  after  the  full  good  light  that  lay  upon  the  sum- 
mit of  the  rocks,  like  the  gray  dream-twilight  under  the 
eyelids  of  one  who  dozes  in  face  of  a  dying  fire. 

"Don't  let's  go  straight  back  to  Grez,"  said  Betty 
when  the  pony  was  harnessed,  "let's  go  on  to  Fontaine- 
bleau  and  have  dinner  and  drive  back  by  moonlight. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  fun?  We've  never  done 
that." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.    "You  are  good." 

His  eyes  met  hers  in  the  green  shadow,  and  she  was 
satisfied  because  he  had  understood  that  this  was  her 
reply  to  his  appeal  to  her  "not  to  avoid  him  in  the  little 
time  there  was  left." 

Both  were  gay  as  they  drove  along  the  golden  roads, 
gayer  than  ever  they  had  been.  The  nearness  of  a  vol- 
cano has  never  been  a  bar  to  gaiety.  Dinner  was  a  joy- 
ous feast,  and  when  it  was  over,  and  the  other  guests 
had  strolled  out,  Temple  sang  all  the  songs  Betty  liked 
best.  Betty  played  for  him.  It  was  all  very  pleasant, 
and  both  pretended,  quite  beautifully,  that  they  were 
the  best  of  friends,  and  that  it  had  never,  never  been  a 
question  of  anything  else.  The  pretence  lasted  through 
all  the  moonlight  of  the  home  drive — lasted  indeed  till 
the  pony  was  trotting  along  the  straight  avenue  that 
leads  down  into  Grez.  And  even  then  it  was  not  Tem- 

322 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         323 

pie  who  broke  it.  It  was  Betty,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"Look  here,"  she  said.  "I've  been  thinking  about  it 
ever  since  you  said  it.  And  I'm  not  going  to  let  it  spoil 
anything.  Only  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  don't  un- 
derstand. And  I'm  most  awfully  proud  that  you 

should I  am  really.  And  I'd  rather  be 

liked  by  you  than  by  anyone — " 

"Almost,"  said  Temple  a  little  bitterly. 

"I  don't  feel  sure  about  that  part  of  it — really.  One 
feels  and  thinks  such  a  lot  of  different  things — and  they 
all  contradict  everything  else,  till  one  doesn't  know 
what  anything  means,  or  what  it  is  one  really — I  can't 
explain.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  your  having 
talked  about  it  makes  any  difference.  At  least  I  don't 
mean  that  at  all.  What  I  mean  is  that  of  course  I  like 
you  ever  so  much  better  now  I  know  that  you  like  me; 
and — oh,  I  don't  want  to — I  don't  want  you  to  think 
it's  all  no  good,  because  really  and  truly  I  don't  know.'' 

All  this  time  she  had  kept  her  hand  on  his  wrist. 

Now  he  laid  his  other  hand  over  it. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "that's  all  I  want,  and  more  than  I 
hoped  for  now.  I  won't  say  another  word  about  it — 
ever,  if  you'd  rather  not, — only  if  ever  you  feel  that  it 
is  me,  and  not  that  other  chap,  then  you'll  tell  me,  won't 
you?" 

"I'll  tell  you  now,"  said  Betty,  "that  I  wish  with  all 
my  heart  it  was  you,  and  not  the  other." 

When  he  had  said  goodnight  at  the  deserted  door  of 
the  courtyard  Betty  slipped  through  the  trees  to  her 
pavilion.  The  garden  seemed  more  crowded  with  trees 
than  it  had  ever  been.  It  was  almost  as  though  new 
trees  from  the  forest  had  stolen  in  while  she  was  at 
Fontainebleau,  and  joined  the  ranks  of  those  that  stood 


324 

sentinel  round  the  pavilion.  There  was  a  lamp  in  the 
garden  room — as  usual.  Its  light  poured  out  and  lay 
like  a  yellow  carpet  on  the  terrace,  and  lent  to  the  fo- 
liage beyond  that  indescribable  air  of  festivity,  of  light- 
heartedness  that  green  leaves  can  always  borrow  from 
artificial  light, 

"I'll  just  see  if  there  are  any  letters,"  she  told  her- 
self. "There  always  might  be:  from  Aunt  Julia  or 
Miss  Voscoe  or — someone." 

She  went  along  the  little  passage  that  led  to  the 
stairs.  The  door  that  opened  from  it  into  the  garden 
room  was  narrowly  ajar.  A  slice  of  light  through  the 
chink  stood  across  the  passage. 

Oh! 

There  was  someone  in  the  room.  Someone  was 
speaking.  She  knew  the  voice.  "She  must  be  in  soon," 
it  said.  It  was  her  Aunt  Julia's  voice.  She  stopped 
dead.  And  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 

Oh!  to  be  caught  like  this!  In  a  trap.  And  just 
when  she  had  decided  to  go  home !  She  would  not  be 
caught.  She  would  steal  up  to  her  room,  get  her 
money,  leave  enough  on  the  table  to  pay  her  bill,  and 
go.  She  could  walk  to  Marlotte — and  go  off  by  train 
in  the  morning  to  Brittany — anywhere.  She  would 
not  be  dragged  back  like  a  prisoner  to  be  all  the  rest  of 
her  life  with  a  hateful  old  man  who  detested  her.  Aunt 
Julia  thought  she  was  very  clever.  Well,  she  would 
just  find  out  that  she  wasn't.  Who  was  -she  talking  to  ? 
Not  Madame,  for  she  spoke  in  English.  To  some  one 
from  Paris ?  Who  could  have  betrayed  her?  Only  one 
person  knew.  Lady  St.  Craye.  Well,  Lady  St.  Craye 
should  not  betray  her  for  nothing.  She  would  not  go 
to  Brittany:  she  would  go  back  to  Paris.  That 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         325 

woman  should  be  taught  what  it  costs  to  play  the  trai- 
tor. 

All  this  in  the  quite  small  pause  before  her  aunt's 
voice  spoke  again. 

"Unless  she's  got  wind  of  our  coming  and  flown," 
it  said. 

"Our"  coming?    Who  was  the  other? 

Betty  was  eavesdropping  then?  How  dishonour- 
able !  Well,  it  is.  And  she  was. 

"I  hope  to  Heaven  she's  safe,"  said  another  voice. 
Oh — it  was  her  step-father!  He  had  come — Then  he 
must  know  everything  1  She  moved,  quite  without 
meaning  to  move;  her  knee  touched  the  door  and  it 
creaked.  Very  very  faintly,  but  it  creaked.  Would  they 
hear  ?  Had  they  heard  ?  No — the  aunt's  voice  again : 

"The  whole  thing-'s  inexplicable  to  me!  I  don't  un- 
derstand it.  You  let  Betty  go  to  Paris." 

"By  your  advice." 

"By  my  advice,  but  also  because  you  wanted  her  to 
be  happy," 

"Yes — Heaven  knows  I  wanted  her  to  be  happy." 
The  old  man's  voice  was  sadder  than  Betty  had  ever 
heard  it. 

"So  we  found  Madame  Gautier  for  her — and  when 
Madame  Gautier  dres,  she  doesn't  write  to  you,  or  wire 
to  you,  to  come  and  find  her  a  new  chaperone.  Why  ?" 

"I  can't  imagine  why." 

"Don't  you  think  it  may  have  been  because  she  was 
afraid  of  you,  thought  you'd  simply  make  her  come 
back  to  Long  Barton  ?" 

"It  would  surely  have  been  impossible  for  her  to 
imagine  that  I  should  lessen  the  time  which  I  had  prom- 
ised her,  on  account  of  an  unfortunate  accident.  She 
knows  the  depth  of  my  affection  for  her.  No,  no — de- 


326         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

pend  upon  it  there  must  have  been  some  other  reason 
for  the  deceit.  I  almost  fear  to  conjecture  what  the 
reason  may  have  been.  Do  you  think  it  possible  that 
she  has  been  seeing  that  man  again?" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  a  chair  impatiently  pushed 
back.  Betty  fled  noiselessly  to  the  stairs.  No  footstep 
followed  the  movement  of  the  chair.  She  crept  back. 

" — when  you  do  see  her?"  her  aunt  was  asking,  "I 
suppose  you  mean  to  heap  reproaches  on  her,  and  take 
her  home  in  disgrace?" 

"I  hope  I  shall  have  strength  given  me  to  do  my 
duty,"  said  the  Reverend  Cecil. 

"Have  you  considered  what  your  duty  is  ?" 

"It  must  be  my  duty  to  reprove,  to  show  her  her  de- 
ceit in  its  full  enormity." 

"You'll  enjoy  that,  won't  you?  It'll  gratify  your 
sense  of  power.  You'll  stand  in  the  place  of  God  to  the 
child,  and  you'll  be  glad  to  see  her  humbled  and 
ashamed." 

"Because  a  thing  is  painful  to  me  it  is  none  the  less 
my  duty." 

"Nor  any  the  more,"  snapped  Miss  Desmond ;  "nor 
any  the  more !  That's  what  you  won't  see.  She  knows 
you  don't  care  about  her,  and  that's  why  she  kept  away 
from  you  as  long  as  she  could." 

"She  can't  know  it.    It  isn't  true." 

"She  thinks  it  is." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Do  you  imagine  I  don't  care  for 
her  ?  Have  you  been  poisoning  her  mind  and — " 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  poison!"  said  Miss  Des- 
mond. "If  she's  lost  altogether  it  won't  matter  to  you. 
You'll  have  done  your  duty." 

"If  she's  lost  I — if  she  were  lost  I  should  not  care  to 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         327 

be  saved.  I  am  aware  that  the  thought  is  sinful.  But 
I  fear  that  it  is  so." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Desmond.  "She's  not  your 
child — why  should  you  care  ?  You  never  had  a  child." 

"What  have  I  done  to  you  that  you  should  try  to  tor- 
ture me  like  this?"  It  was  her  step-father's  voice,  but 
Betty  hardly  knew  it.  "For  pity's  sake,  woman,  be 
quiet !  Let  me  bear  what  I  have  to  bear  without  your 
chatter." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Miss  Desmond  very  gently.  "For- 
give me  if  I  didn't  understand.  And  you  do  really 
care  about  her  a  little?" 

"Care  about  her  a  little !  She's  the  only  living  thing 
I  do  care  for — or  ever  have  cared  for  except  one.  Oh, 
it  is  like  a  woman  to  cast  it  up  at  me  as  a  reproach  that 
I  have  no  child !  Why  have  I  no  child  ?  Because  the 
woman  whom  Almighty  God  made  for  my  child's 
mother  was  taken  from  me — in  her  youth — before  she 
was  mine.  Her  name  was  Lizzie.  And  my  Lizzie,  my 
little  Lizzie  that's  lied  and  deceived  us,  she  is  my  child 
— the  one  we  should  have  had.  She's  my  heart's  blood. 
Do  you  think  I  want  to  scold  her;  do  you  think  I  want 
to  humble  her  ?  Do  you  not  perceive  how  my  own  heart 
will  be  torn  ?  But  it  is  my  duty.  I  will  not  spare  the 
rod.  And  she  will  understand  as  you  never  could.  Oh, 
my  little  Lizzie! — Oh,  pray  God  she  is  safe!  If  it 
please  God  to  restore  her  safely  to  me,  I  will  not  yield 
to  the  wicked  promptings  of  my  own  selfish  affection. 
I  will  show  her  her  sin,  and  we  will  pray  for  forgive- 
ness together.  Yes,  I  will  not  shrink,  even  if  it  break 
my  heart— I  will  tell  her— 

"I  should  tell  her,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "just  what 
you've  told  me." 


328         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

The  old  man  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
Betty  could  hear  every  movement. 

"It's  been  the  struggle  of  my  life  not  to  spoil  her — 
not  to  let  my  love  for  her  lead  me  to  neglect  her  eternal 
welfare — not  to  lessen  her  modesty  by  my  praises — not 
to  condone  the  sin  because  of  my  love  for  the  sinner. 
My  love  has  not  been  selfish. — It  has  been  the  struggle 
of  my  life  not  to  let  my  affection  be  a  snare  to  her." 

"Then  I  must  say,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "that  you 
might  have  been  better  employed." 

"Thank  God  I  have  done  my  duty !  You  don't  under- 
stand. But  my  Lizzie  will  understand." 

"Yes,  she  will  understand,"  cried  Betty,  bursting 
open  the  door  and  standing  between  the  two  with  cheeks 
that  flamed.  "I  do  understand,  Father  dear !  Auntie, 
I  don't  understand  you!  You're  cruel, — and  it's  not 
like  you.  Will  you  mind  going  away,  please?" 

The  cruel  aunt  smiled,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 
As  she  passed  Betty  she  whispered:  "I  thought  you 
were  never  going  to  come  from  behind  that  door.  I 
couldn't  have  kept  it  up  much  longer." 

Then  she  went  out  and  closed  the  door  firmly. 

Betty  went  straight  to  her  step-father  and  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"You  do  forgive  me — you  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you  ?"  she  said  breathlessly. 

He  put  an  arm  awkwardly  round  her. 

"There's  nothing  you  could  do  that  I  couldn't  for- 
give," he  said  in  a  choked  voice.  "But  it  is  my  duty 
not  to—" 

She  interrupted  him  by  drawing  back  to  look  at  him, 
but  she  kept  his  arm  where  it  was,  by  her  hand  on  his. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "I've  heard  everything  you've 
been  saying.  It's  no  use  scolding  me,  because  you 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          329 

can't  possibly  say  anything  that  I  haven't  said  to  my- 
self a  thousand  times.  Sit  down  and  let  me  tell  you 
everything,  every  single  thing!  I  did  mean  to  come 
home  this  week,  and  tell  you;  I  truly  did.  I  wish  I'd 
gone  home  before." 

"Oh,  Lizzie,"  said  the  old  man,  "  how  could  you? 
How  could  you  ?" 

"I  didn't  understand.  I  didn't  know.  I  was  a  blind 
idiot.  Oh,  Father,  you'll  see  how  different  I'll  be  now! 
Oh,  if  one  of  us  had  died — and  I'd  never  known !" 

"Known  what,  my  child  ?  Oh,  thank  God  I  have  you 
safe!  Known  what?" 

"Why,  that  you — how  fond  you  are  of  me." 

"You  didn't  know  that?' 

"I — I  wasn't  always  sure,"  Betty  hastened  to  say.  A 
miracle  had  happened.  She  could  read  now  in  his  eyes 
the  appeal  that  she  had  always  misread  before.  "But 
now  I  shall  always  be  sure — always.  And  I'm  going 
to  be  such  a  good  daughter  to  you — you'll  see — if  you'll 
only  forgive  me.  And  you  will  forgive  me.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  how  I  trust  you  now !" 

"  Didn't  you  always?" 

"Not  enough — not  nearly  enough.  But  I  do  now. 
Let  me  tell  you — Don't  let  me  ever  be  afraid  of  you — 
oh,  don't  let  me!"  She  had  pushed  him  gently  into  a 
chair  and  was  half  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  him. 

"Have  you  ever  been  afraid  of  me?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know ;  a  little  perhaps  sometimes !  You 
don't  know  how  silly  I  am.  But  not  now.  You  are 
glad  to  see  me?" 

"Lizzie,"  he  said,  "God  knows  how  glad  I  am !  But 
it's  my  duty  to  ask  you  at  once  whether  you've  done 
anything  wrong." 

"Everything  wrong  you  can  think  of!"     she  an- 


330          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

swered  enthusiastically,  "only  nothing  really  wicked,  of 
course.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  And  oh,  do  remem- 
ber you  can't  think  worse  of  me  than  I  do!  Oh,  it's 
glorious  not  to  be  afraid !" 

"Of  me?"    His  tone  pleaded  again. 

"No,  no — of  anything!  Of  being  found  out.  I'm 
glad  you've  come  for  me.  I'm  glad  I've  got  to  tell  you 
everything — I  did  mean  to  go  home  next  week,  but 
I'm  glad  it's  like  this.  Because  now  I  know  how  much 
you  care,  and  I  might  never  have  found  that  out  if  I 
hadn't  listened  at  the  door  like  a  mean,  disgraceful  cat. 
I  ought  to  be  miserable  because  I've  done  wrong — but 
I'm  not.  I  can't  be.  I'm  really  most  frightfully 
happy." 

"Thank  God  you  can  say  that,"  he  said,  timidly 
stroking  her  hair  with  the  hand  that  she  was  not  hold- 
ing. "Now  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  you  may  have 

to  tell  me,  my  child — my  dear  child." 

***** 

To  four  persons  the  next  day  was  one  of  the  oddest 
in  their  lives. 

Arriving  early  to  take  Betty  to  finish  her  sketch,  the 
stricken  Temple  was  greeted  on  the  doorstep  by  a 
manly  looking  lady  in  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  short 
skirts,  serviceable  brown  boots  and  a  mushroom  hat. 

"I  know  who  you  are,"  said  she;  "you're  Mr.  Tem- 
ple. I'm  Betty  Desmond's  aunt.  Would  you  like  to 
take  me  on  the  river?  Betty  is  busy  this  morning  mak- 
ing the  aquaintance  of  her  step-father.  She's  taken 
him  out  in  the  little  cart." 

"I  see,"  said  Temple.  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  take 
you  on  the  river." 

"Nice  young  man.  You  don't  ask  questions.  An 
excellent  trait." 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST          331 

"An  acquired  characteristic,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Temple,  remembering  his  first  meeting  with  Betty. 

"Then  you  won't  be  able  to  transmit  it  to  your  chil- 
dren. That's  a  pity.  However,  since  you  don't  ask 
I'll  tell  you.  The  old  man  has  'persistently  concealed 
his  real  nature'  from  Betty.  You'd  think  it  was  im- 
possible, living  in  the  same  house  all  these  years.  Last 
night  she  found  him  out.  She's  as  charmed  with  the 
discovery  as  a  girl  child  with  a  doll  that  opens  and 
shuts  its  eyes — or  a  young  man  with  the  nonentity  he 
calls  his  ideal.  Come  along.  She'll  spend  the  morn- 
ing playing  with  her  new  toy.  Cheer  up.  You  shall 
see  her  at  dejeuner." 

"I  do  not  need  cheering,"  said  the  young  man.  And 
I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  things  you'd  rather  not. 
On  the  contrary — " 

"You  want  me  not  to  tell  you  the  things  I'd  rather 
tell  you?" 

"No :  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all  about — " 

"All  about  yourself.  My  dear  young  man,  there  is 
nothing  I  enjoy  more;  the  passion  for  confidences  is 
my  only  vice.  It  was  really  to  indulge  that  that  I 
asked  you  to  come  on  the  river  with  me." 

"I  thought,"  said  Temple  as  they  reached  the  land- 
ing stage,  "that  perhaps  you  had  asked  me  to  console 
me  for  not  seeing  your  niece  this  morning." 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  Miss  Desmond  stepped  lightly 
into  the  boat.  "I  rather  like  compliments,  especially 
when  you're  solidly  built — like  myself.  Oh,  yes,  I'll 
steer ;  pull  hard,  bow,  she's  got  no  way  on  her  yet,  and 
the  stream's  strong  just  here  under  the  bridge.  I  gather 
that  you've  been  proposing  to  my  niece." 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  said  Temple,  pulling  a  racing 
stroke  in  his  agitation. 


333         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Gently,  gently!  The  Diamond  Sculls  aren't  at 
stake.  She  led  you  on,  you  mean  ?" 

He  rested  on  his  oars  a  moment  and  laughed. 

"What  is  there  about  you  that  makes  me  feel  that 
I've  known  you  all  my  life?" 

"Possibly  it's  my  enormous  age.  Or  it  may  be  that 
I  nursed  you  when  you  were  a  baby.  I  have  nursed 
one  or  two  in  my  time,  though  I  mayn't  look  it. — So 
Betty  entrapped  you  into  a  proposal?" 

"Are  you  trying  to  make  me  angry  ?  It's  a  danger- 
ous  river.  Can  you  swim." 

"Like  any  porpoise.  But  of  course  I  misunderstand 
people  if  they  won't  explain  themselves.  You  needn't 
tremble  like  that.  I'll  be  gentle  with  you." 

"If  I  tremble  it's  with  pleasure,"  said  Temple. 

"Come,  moderate  your  transports,  and  unfold  your 
tale.  My  ears  are  red,  I  know,  but  they  are  small, 
well-shaped  and  sympathetic." 

"Well  then,"  said  Temple;  and  the  tale  began.  By 
the  time  it  was  ended  the  boat  was  at  a  standstill  on 
the  little  backwater  below  the  pretties  of  the  sluices. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Well?"  said  Temple, 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  dipping  her  hand  in 
the  water — "what  a  stream  this  is,  to  be  sure ! — Well, 
your  means  are  satisfactory  and  you  seem  to  me  to 
have  behaved  quite  beautifully.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
heard  of  such  profoundly  correct  conduct." 

"If  I've  made  myself  out  a  prig1,"  said  Temple,  "I'm 
sorry.  I  could  tell  you  lots  of  things." 

"Please  spare  me !  Why  are  people  always  so  fright- 
fully ashamed  of  having  behaved  like  decent  human 
beings  ?  I  esteem  you  immensely," 

"I'd  rather  you  liked  me," 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         333 

"Well,  so  I  do,  But  I  like  lots  of  people  I  don't 
esteem.  If  I'd  married  anyone  it  would  probably  have 
been  some  one  like  that.  But  for  Betty  it's  different.  I 
shouldn't  have  needed  to  esteem  my  own  husband.  But 
I  must  esteem  hers." 

"I'll  try  not  to  deserve  your  esteem  more  than  I'm 
obliged,"  said  Temple,  "but  your  liking — what  can  I  do 
to  deserve  that — ?" 

"Go  on  as  you've  begun,  my  dear  young  man,  and 
you'll  be  Aunt  Julia's  favourite  nephew.  No — don't 
blush.  It's  an  acknowledgement  of  a  tender  speech  that 
I  always  dispense  with." 

"Advise  me,"  said  he,  red  to  the  ears  and  hands. 
"She  doesn't  care  for  me,  at  present.  .What  can  I  do?" 

"What  most  of  us  have  to  do — when  we  want  any- 
thing worth  wanting.  Wait.  We're  going  home  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  If  you  turn  up  at  Long  Barton 
about  the  middle  of  September — you  might  come 
down  for  the  Harvest  Festival;  it's  the  yearly  excite- 
ment. That's  what  I  should  do." 

"Must  I  wait  so  long  as  that  ?"  he  asked.     "Why  ?" 

"Let  me  whisper  in  your  ear,"  said  Miss  Desmond, 
loud  above  the  chatter  of  the  weir.  "Long  Barton  is 
very  dull!  Now  let's  go  back." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  accept  me  because  she's  bored." 

"No  more  do  I.  But  one  sees  the  proportions  of 
things  better  when  one's  dull.  And — yes.  I  esteem 
you ;  I  like  you.  You  are  ingenuous,  and  innocuous. — 
No,  really  that  was  a  yielding  to  the  devil  of  allitera- 
tion. I  mean  you  are  a  real  good  sort.  The  other  man 
has  the  harmlessness  of  the  serpent.  As  for  me,  I  have 
the  wisdom  of  the  dove.  You  profit  by  it  and  come  to 
Long  Barton  in  September." 

"It  seems  like  a  plot  to  catch  her,"  said  Temple. 


334        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"A  friend  of  yours  told  me  you  were  straight.  And 
you  are.  I  thought  perhaps  she  flattered  you." 

"Who? — No,   I'm  not  to  ask  questions." 

"Lady   St.   Craye." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  slowly  pulling  down- 
stream, "there's  one  thing  I  didn't  tell  you.  I  came 
away  from  Paris  because  I  wasn't  quite  sure  that  I 
wasn't  in  love  with  her." 

"Not  you,"  said  Miss  Desmond.  "She'd  never  have 
suited  you.  And  now  she'll  throw  herself  away  on  the 
man  with  the  green  eyes  and  the  past.  I  mean  Pasts. 
And  it's  a  pity.  She's  a  woman  after  my  own  heart." 

"She's  extraordinarily  charming,"  said  Temple  with 
a  very  small  sigh. 

"Yes  extraordinarily,  as  you  say.  And  so  you 
came  away  from  Paris!  I  begin  to  think  you  have  a 
little  of  the  wisdom  of  the  dove  too.  Pull  now — or  we 
shall  be  late  for  breakfast." 

He  pulled. 

***** 

"Now  that/'  said  the  Reverend  Cecil  that  evening  to 
his  sister-in-law,  "that  is  the  kind  of  youth  I  should 
wish  to  see  my  Lizzie  select  for  her  help-mate." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  "if  you  keep  that  wish 
strictly  to  yourself,  I  should  think  it  had  a  better  chance 
than  most  wishes  of  being  gratified," 


CHAPTER  XXVII." 
THE  PINK  SILK  STORY. 

To  call  on  the  concierge  at  Betty's  old  address,  and 
to  ask  for  news  of  her  had  come  to  seem  to  Vernon 
the  unbroken  habit  of  a  life-time.  There  never  was 
any  news :  there  never  would  be  any  news.  But  there 
always  might  be. 

The  days  went  by,  days  occupied  in  these  fruitless 
gold-edged  enquiries,  in  the  other  rose-accompanied 
enquiries  after  the  health  of  Lady  St.  Craye,  and  in 
watching  for  the  postman  who  should  bring  the  answer 
to  his  formal  proposal  of  marriage. 

To  his  deep  surprise  and  increasing  disquietude,  no 
answer  came.  Was  the  Reverend  Cecil  dead,  or 
merely  inabordable?  Had  Betty  despised  his  offer  too 
deeply  to  answer  it?  The  lore  learned  in,  as  it  seemed, 
another  life  assured  him  that  a  woman  never  despises 
an  offer  too  much  to  say  "No"  to  it. 

Watch  for  the  postman.  Look  at  Betty's  portrait. 
Call  on  the  concierge.  (He  had  been  used  to  dislike 
the  employment  of  dirty  instruments.)  Call  on  the 
florist.  (There  was  a  decency  in  things,  even  if  all 
one's  being  were  contemptibly  parched  for  the  sight  of 
another  woman.)  Call  and  enquire  for  the  poor  Jas- 
mine Lady.  Studio — think  of  Betty — look  at  her  por- 
trait— pretend  to  work.  Meals  at  fairly  correct  inter- 
vals. Call  on  the  concierge.  Look  at  the  portrait 

335 


336         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

again.  Such  were  the  recurrent  incidents  of  Vernon's 
life.  Between  the  incidents  came  a  padding  of  futile 
endeavour.  Work,  he  had  always  asserted,  was  the 
cure  for  inconvenient  emotions.  Only  now  the  cure 
was  not  available. 

And  the  postman  brought  nothing  interesting,  except 
a  letter,  post-mark  Denver,  Col.,  a  letter  of  tender 
remonstrance  from  the  Brittany  girl,  Miss  Van  Tromp. 

Then  came  the  morning  when  the  concierge,  demure- 
ly assuring  him  of  her  devotion  to  his  interests,  offered 
to  post  a  letter.  No  bribe — and  he  was  shameless  in 
his  offers — could  wring  more  than  that  from  her.  And 
even  the  posting  of  the  letter  cost  a  sum  that  the  woman 
chuckled  over  through  all  the  days  during  which  the 
letter  lay  in  her  locked  drawer,  under  Lady  St.  Craye's 
bank  note  and  the  divers  tokens  of  "ce  monsieur's" 
interest  in  the  intrigue — whatever  the  intrigue  might 
be — its  details  were  not  what  interested. 

Vernon  went  home,  pulled  the  table  into  the  middle 
of  the  bare  studio  and  wrote,  This  letter  wrote  itself 
without  revision. 

"Why  did  you  go  away?"  it  said,  "Where  are  you? 
where  can  I  see  you?  What  has  happened?  Have 
your  people  found  out?" 

A  long  pause — the  end  of  the  pen  bitten, 

"I  want  to  have  no  lies  or  deceit  any  more  between 
us.  I  must  tell  you  the  truth.  I  have  never  been 
engaged  to  anyone.  But  you  would  not  let  me  see  you 
without  that,  so  I  let  you  think  it.  Will  you  forgive 
me  ?  Can  you  ?  For  lying  to  you  ?  If  you  can't  I  shall 
know  that  nothing  matters  at  all.  But  if  you  can  for- 
give me — then  I  shall  let  myself  hope  for  impossible 
things. 

"Dear,  whether  it's  all  to  end  here  or  not,  let  me 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        337 

write  this  once  without  thinking  of  anything  but  you 
and  me.  I  have  written  to  your  father  asking  his  per- 
mission to  ask  you  to  marry  me.  To  you  I  want  to  say 
that  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you — and  I  have  never 
loved  anyone  else.  That's  part  of  my  punishment  for 
— I  don't  know  what  exactly.  Playing  with  fire,  I  sup- 
pose. Dear — can  you  love  me?  Ever  since  I  met  you 
at  Long  Barton"  (Pause:  what  about  Miss  Van 
Tromp?  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing!)  "I've  not 
thought  of  anything  but  you.  I  want  you  for  my  very 
own.  There  is  no  one  like  you,  my  love,  my  Princess. 

"You'll  write  to  me.  Even  if  you  don't  care  a  little 
bit  you'll  write.  Dear,  I  hardly  dare  hope  that  you 
care,  but  I  daren't  fear  that  you  don't.  I  shall  count 
the  minutes  till  I  get  your  answer.  I  feel  like  a  school- 
boy. 

"Dear  it's  my  very  heart  I'm  sending  you  here.  If 
I  didn't  love  you,  love  you,  love  you  I  could  write  a 
better  letter,  tell  you  better  how  I  love  you.  Write  now. 
You  will  write? 

"Did  someone  tell  you  something  or  write  you  some- 
thing that  made  you  go  away?  It's  not  true,  what- 
ever it  is.  Nothing's  true,  but  that  I  want  you.  As 
I've  never  wanted  anything.  Let  me  see  you.  Let  me 
tell  you.  I'll  explain  everything — if  anyone  has  been 
telling  lies. 

"If  you  don't  care  enough  to  write,  I  don't  care 
enough  to  go  on  living.  Oh,  my  dear  Dear,  all  the 
words  and  phrases  have  been  used  up  before.  There's 
nothing  new  to  say,  I  know.  But  what's  in  my  heart 
for  you —  that's  new,  that's  all  that  matters — that  and 
what  your  heart  might  hold  for  me.  Does  it?  Tell 
me.  If  I  can't  have  your  love,  I  can't  bear  my  life. 
And  I  won't. — You'll  think  this  letter  isn't  like  me.  It 


338        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

isn't,  I  know.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  a  new  man: 
and  you  have  made  me.  Dear, — can't  you  love  the 
man  you've  made?  Write,  write,  write! 

"Yours — as  I  never  thought  I  could  be  anyone's, 

"EUSTACE  VERNON." 

"It's  too  long,"  he  said,  most  inartistic,  but  I  won't 
re-write  it.  Contemptible  ass !  If  she  cares  it  won't 
matter.  If  she  doesn't,  it  won't  matter  either." 

And  that  was  the  letter  that  lay  in  the  locked  drawer 
for  a  week.  And  through  that  week  the  watching  for 
the  postman  went  on — went  on.  And  the  enquiries, 
mechanically. 

And  no  answer  came  at  all,  to  either  of  his  letters. 
Had  the  Concierge  deceived  him?  Had  she  really  no 
address  to  which  to  send  the  letter? 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  posted  the  letter?" 

"Altogether,  monsieur,"  said  the  concierge,  fingering 
the  key  of  the  drawer  that  held  it. 

And  the  hot  ferment  of  Paris  life  seethed  and  fretted 
all  around  him.  If  Betty  were  at  Long  Barton — oh,  the 
dewy  gray  grass  in  the  warren — and  the  long  shadows 
on  the  grass ! 

Three  days  more  went  by. 

"You  have  posted  the  letter?" 

"But  yes,  Monsieur.  Be  tranquil.  Without  doubt 
it  was  a  letter  that  should  exact  time  for  the  response." 

It  was  on  the  fifth  day  that  he  met  Mimi  Chantal, 
the  prettiest  model  on  the  left  bank. 

"Is  monsieur  by  chance  painting  the  great  picture 
which  shall  put  him  between  Velasquez  and  Caran 
d'Ache  on  the  last  day?" 

"I  am  painting  nothing,"  said  Vernon.  "And  why 
is  the  prettiest  model  in  Paris  not  at  work?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        333 

"I  was  in  lateness  but  a  little  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Monsieur.  And  behold  me — chucked." 

"It  wasn't  for  the  first  time,  then?" 

"A  nothing  one  or  two  days  last  week.  Monsieur 
had  better  begin  to  paint  that  chef  d'aeuvre — to-day 
even.  It  isn't  often  that  the  prettiest  model  in  Paris  is 
free  to  sit  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"But,"  said  Vernon,  "I  haven't  an  idea  for  a  picture 
even.  It  is  too  hot  for  ideas.  I'm  going  into  the  coun- 
try at  the  end  of  the  month,  to  do  landscape." 

"  To  paint  a  picture  it  is  then  absolutely  necessary  to 
have  an  idea?" 

"An  idea — or  a  commission." 

"There  is  always  something  that  lacks !  With  me  it 
is  the  technique  that  is  to  seek;  with  you  the  ideas! 
Otherwise  we  should  both  be  masters.  For  you  have 
technique  both  hands  full ;  I  have  ideas,  me." 

"Tell  me  some  of  them,"  said  Vernon,  strolling 
along  by  her  side.  It  was  not  his  habit  to  stroll  along 
beside  models.  But  to-day  he  was  fretted  and  chafed 
by  long  waiting  for  that  answer  to  his  letter.  Any- 
thing seemed  better  than  the  empty  studio  where  one 
waited. 

"Here  is  one!  I  have  the  idea  that  artists  have  no 
eyes.  How  they  pose  me  ever  as  1'fite  or  La  Source  or 
Leda,  or  that  clumsy  Suzanne  with  her  eternal  old  men. 
As  if  they  knew  better  than  I  do  how  a  woman  holds 
herself  up  or  sits  herself  down,  or  nurses  a  duck,  or 
defends  herself!" 

"Your  idea  is  probably  correct.  I  understand  you  to 
propose  that  I  should  paint  a  picture  called  The  Blind 
Artist?" 

"Don't   do   the   imbecile.     I   propose   for   subject 


340        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

Me — not  posed ;  me  as  I  am  in  the  Rest.  Is  it  not  that 
it  is  then  that  I  am  the  most  pretty,  the  most  chic  ?" 

"It  certainly  is,"  said  he.  "And  you  propose  that  I 
should  paint  you  as  you  appear  in  the  Rest?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  interrupted.  "Tender  rose  colour — 
it  goes  to  a  marvel  with  my  Cleo  de  Mdrode  hair.  And 
if  you  want  a  contrast — or  one  of  those  little  tricks  to 
make  people  say :  'What  does  it  mean  ?' ' 

"I  don't,  thank  you,"  he  laughed. 

"Paint  that  white  drowned  girl's  face  that  hangs 
behind  your  stove.  Paint  her  and  me  looking  at  each 
other.  She  has  the  air  of  felicitating  herself  that  she 
is  dead.  Me,  I  will  have  the  air  of  felicitating  myself 
that  I  am  alive.  You  will  see,  Monsieur.  Essay  but 
one  sole  little  sketch,  and  you  will  think  of  nothing 
else.  One  might  entitle  it  'The  Rivals.' ' 

"Or  'The  Rest,'  "  said  Vernon,  a  little  interested. 
"Oh,  well,  I'm  not  doing  anything. — I'll  make  a  sketch 

and  give  it  you  as  a  present*     Come  in  an  hour." 

***** 

"Auntie,  wake  up,  wake  up !"  Betty,  white- faced  and 
determined,  was  pulling  back  the  curtain  with  ringers 
that  rigidly  would  not  tremble. 

"Shut  the  door  and  spare  my  blushes,"  said  her 
aunt.  "What's  up  now  ?"  She  looked  at  the  watch  on 
the  bed-table.  "Why  its  only  just  six." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Betty;  "you've  had  all  the 
night  to  sleep  in.  I  haven't.  I  want  you  to  get  up  and 
dress  and  come  to  Paris  with  me  by  the  early  train." 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  aunt.  "No,  not  on  the  bed.  I 
hate  that.  In  this  chair.  Now  remember  that  we  all 
parted  last  night  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  that  as  far  as 
I  know  nothing  has  happened  since." 

"Oh,  no — nothing  of  course!"  said  Betty. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         341 

"Don't  be  ironical,"  said  Miss  Desmond;  "at  six  in 
the  morning  it's  positively  immoral.  Tell  me  all — let 
me  hear  the  sad  sweet  story  of  your  life." 

"Very  well,"  said  Betty,  "if  you're  only  going  to  gibe 
I'll  go  alone.  Or  I'll  get  Mr.  Temple  to  take  me»" 

"To  see  the  other  man  ?    That  will  be  nice." 

"Who  said  anything  about — ?" 

"You  did,  the  moment  you  came  in.  Come  child ;  sit 
down  and  tell  me.  I'm  not  unsympathetic.  I'm  only 
very,  very  sleepy.  And  I  did  think  everything  was 
arranged.  I  was  dreaming  of  orange  blossoms  and 
The  Voice  That  Breathed.  And  the  most  beautiful 
trousseau  marked  E.  T.  And  silver  fish-knives,  and 
salt-cellars  in  a  case  lined  with  purple  velvet" 

"Go  on,"  said  Betty,  "if  it  amuses  you." 

"No,  no.  I'm  sorry.  Forgive  the  ravings  of  delir- 
ium. Go  on.  Poor  little  Betty  1  Don't  worry.  Tell 
its  own  aunt." 

"It's  not  a  joke,"  said  Betty. 

"So  I  more  and  more  perceive,  now  that  I'm  really 
waking  up,"  said  the  aunt,  sitting  up  and  throwing 
back  her  thick  blond  hair.  "Come,  I'll  get  up  now. 
Give  me  my  stockings — and  tell  me — " 

"They  were  under  my  big  hat,"  said  Betty,  doing  as 
she  was  told ;  "the  one  I  wore  the  night  you  came.  And 
I'd  thrown  it  down  on  the  chest  of  drawers — and  they 
were  underneath." 

"My  stockings  ?" 

"No — my  letters.  Two  of  them.  And  one  of  them's 
from  Him.  It's  a.  week  old,  And  he  says  he  won't 
live  if  I  don't  love  him." 

"They  always  do,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  pouring 
water  into  the  basin.  "Well  ?" 

"And  he  wants  me  to  marry  him,  and  he  was  never 


342         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

engaged  to  Lady  St.  Craye;  and  it  was  a  lie.  I've  had 
a  letter  from  her" 

"I  can't  understand  a  word  you  say,"  said  Miss  Des- 
mond through  splashings. 

"My  friend  Paula,  that  I  told  you  about.  She  never 
went  home  to  her  father.  Mr.  Vernon  set  her  up  in 
a  restaurant!  Oh,  how  good  and  noble  he  is!  Here 
are  your  shoes — and  he  says  he  won't  live  without  me; 
and  I'm  going  straight  off  to  him,  and  I  wouldn't  go 
without  telling  you.  It's  no  use  telling  father  yet,  but 
I  did  think  you'd  understand." 

"Hand  me  that  green  silk  petticoat.  Thank  you. 
What  did  you  think  I'd  understand?" 

"Why  that  I— that  it's  him  I  love." 

"You  do,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  always,  always !  And  I  must  go  to  him.  But 
I  won't  go  and  leave  Bobbie  to  think  I'm  going  to 
marry  him  some  day.  I  must  tell  him  first,  and  then 
I'm  going  straight  to  Paris  to  find  him,  and  give  him 
the  answer  to  his  letter." 

"You  must  do  as  you  like.  It's  your  life,  not  mine. 
But  it's  a  pity,"  said  her  aunt,  "and  I  should  send  a 
telegram  to  prepare  him." 

"The  office  won't  be  open.  There's  a  train  at  seven 
forty-five."  Oh,  do  hurry.  I've  ordered  the  pony. 
We'll  call  and  tell  Mr.  Temple. 

It  was  not  the  7:45  that  was  caught,  however,  but 
the  10:15,  because  Temple  was,  naturally,  in  bed. 
When  he  had  been  roused,  and  had  dressed  and  come 
out  to  them,  in  tKe  gay  terrace  overhanging  the  river 
where  the  little  tables  are  and  the  flowers  in  pots  and 
the  vine-covered  trellis,  Miss  Desmond  turned  and  pos- 
itively fled  before  the  gay  radiance  of  his  face. 

"This  is  dear  and  sweet  of  you,"  he  said  to  Betty. 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         343 

"What  lovely  scheme  have  you  come  to  break  to  me? 
But  what's  the  matter  ?  You're  not  ill  ?" 

"Oh,  don't,"  said  Betty;  "don't  look  like  that!  I 
couldn't  go  without  telling  you.  It's  all  over,  Bobbie." 

She  had  never  before  called  him  by  that  name,  and 
now  she  did  not  know  what  she  had  called  him. 

"What's  all  over?"  he  asked  mechanically. 

"Everything,"  she  said ;  "your  thinking  I  was  going 
to,  perhaps,  some  time — and  all  that.  Because  now  I 
never  shall.  O,  Bobbie,  I  do  hate  hurting  you,  and  I 
do  like  you  so  frightfully  much!  But  he's  written  to 
me:  the  letter's  been  delayed.  And  it's  all  a  mistake. 
And  I'm  going  to  him  now.  Oh, — I  hope  you'll  be 
able  to  forgive  me !" 

"It's  not  your  fault,"  he  said.  "Wait  a  minute.  It's 
so  sudden.  Yes,  I  see.  Don't  you  worry  about  me, 
dearest,  I  shall  be  all  right.  May  I  know  who  it  is?" 

"It's  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  Betty. 

"Oh,  my  God !"  Temple's  hand  clenched.  "No,  no, 
no,  no!" 

"I  am  so  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Betty  in  the  tone 
one  uses  who  has  trodden  on  another's  foot  in  an  om- 
nibus. 

He  had  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little  tables,  and  was 
looking  out  over  the  shining  river  with  eyes  half  shut. 

"But  it's  not  true,"  he  said.  "It  can't  be  true !  He's 
going  to  marry  Lady  St.  Craye." 

"That's  all  a  mistake,"  said  Betty  eagerly ;  "he  only 
said  that  because — I  haven't  time  to  tell  you  all  about 
it  now.  But  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

"Betty,  dear,"  he  said,  using  in  his  turn,  for  the  first 
time,  her  Christian  name,  "don't  do  it.  Don't  marry 
him.  You  don't  know." 

"I  thought  you  were  his  friend." 


344         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"So  I  am,"  said  Temple.  "I  like  him  right  enough. 
But  what's  all  the  friendship  in  the  world  compared 
with  your  happiness?  Don't  marry  him — dear. 
Don't." 

"I  shall  marry  whom  I  choose,"  said  Betty,  chin  in 
air,  "and  it  won't  be  you."  ("I  don't  care  if  I  am 
vulgar  and  brutal,"  she  told  herself,  "k  serves  him 
right.") 

"It's  not  for  me,  dear.  It's  not  for  me — it's  for  you. 
I'll  go  right  away  and  never  see  you  again.  Marry 
some  straight  chap — anyone — But  not  Vernon." 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  Betty  with 
lofty  calm,  "and  I  am  very  sorry  for  any  annoyance  I 
may  have  caused  you.  Of  course,  I  see  now  that  I 
could  never — I  mean,"  she  added  angrily,  "I  hate  peo- 
ple who  are  false  to  their  friends.  Yes — and  now  I've 
missed  my  train." 

She  had. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Temple  when  the  fact  was  sub- 
stantiated, and  the  gray  pony  put  up,  "after  all,  I  was 
your  friend  before  I — before  you — before  all  this  that 
can't  come  to  anything.  Let  me  give  you  both  some 
coffee  and  see  you  to  the  station.  And  Betty,  don't  you 
go  and  be  sorry  about  me  afterwards.  Because,  really, 
it's  not  your  fault  and,"  he  laughed  and  was  silent  a 
moment,  "and  I'd  rather  have  loved  you  and  have  it 
end  like  this,  dear,  than  never  have  known  you.  I 
truly  would." 

The  journey  to  Paris  was  interminable.  Betty  had 
decided  not  to  think  of  Temple,  yet  that  happy  morn- 
ing face  of  his  would  come  between  her  and  the  things 
she  wanted  to  think  of.  To  have  hurt  him  like  that! — 
It  hurt  her  horribly;  much  more  than  she  would  have 
believed  possible.  And  she  had  been  cruel.  "Of 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         345 

course  it's  natural  that  he  should  say  things  about  Him. 
He  must  hate  anyone  that — He  nearly  cried  when  he 
said  that  about  rather  have  loved  me  than  not — Yes — " 
A  lump  came  in  Betty's  own  throat,  and  her  eyes 
pricked. 

"Come,  don't  cry,"  said  her  aunt  briskly;  "you've 
made  your  choice,  and  you're  going1  to  your  lover. 
Don't  be  like  Lot's  wife.  You  can't  eat  your  cake  and 
have  it  too." 

Vernon's  concierge  assured  these  ladies  that  Mon- 
sieur was  at  home. 

"He  makes  the  painting  in  this  moment,"  she  said. 
"Mount  then,  my  ladies." 

They  mounted. 

Betty  remembered  her  last — her  first — visit  to  his 
studio :  when  Paula  had  disappeared  and  she  had  gone 
to  him  for  help.  She  remembered  how  the  velvet  had 
come  off  her  dress,  and  how  awful  her  hair  had  been 
when  she  had  looked  in  the  glass  afterwards.  And 
Lady  St.  Craye — how  beautifully  dressed,  how  smil- 
ing and  superior ! 

"Hateful  cat !"  said  Betty  on  the  stairs.  ' 

"Eh?"  said  her  aunt. 

Now  there  would  be  no  one  in  the  studio  but  Ver- 
non.  He  would  be  reading  over  her  letters — nothing 
in  them — only  little  notes  about  whether  she  would  pr 
wouldn't  be  free  on  Tuesday — whether  she  could  or 
couldn't  dine  with  him  on  Wednesday.  But  he  would 
be  reading  them  over — perhaps — 

The  key  was  in  the  door. 

"Do  you  mind  waiting  on  the  stairs,  Auntie  dear," 
said  Betty  in  a  voice  of  honey;  "just  the  first  minute? 
— I  would  like  to  have  it  for  us  two — alone.  You 
don't  mind?" 


346         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Do  as  you  like,"  said  the  aunt  rather  sadly.  "I 
should  knock  if  I  were  you." 

Betty  did  not  knock.  She  opened  the  studio  door 
softly.  She  would  like  to  see  him  before  he  saw  her. 

She  had  her  wish. 

A  big  canvas  stood  on  the  easel,  a  stool  in  front  of 
it.  The  table  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  yellow 
embroidered  cloth  on  it.  There  was  food  on  the  cloth 
— little  breads,  pretty  cakes  and  strawberries  and  cher- 
ries, and  wine  in  tall,  beautiful,  topaz-coloured  glasses. 

Vernon  sat  in  his  big  chair.  Betty  could  see  his 
profile.  He  sat  there,  laughing.  On  the  further  arm  of 
the  chair  sat,  laughing  also,  a  very  pretty  young 
woman.  Her  black  hair  was  piled  high  on  her  head 
and  fastened  with  a  jewelled  pin.  The  sunlight  played 
in  the  jewels.  She  wore  a  pink  silk  garment.  She  held 
cherries  in  her  hand. 

"Via,  cheri!"  she  said,  and  put  one  of  the  twin  cher- 
ries in  her  mouth;  then  she  leant  over  him  laughing, 
and  Vernon  reached  his  head  forward  to  take  in  his 
mouth  the  second  cherry  that  dangled  below  her  chin. 
His  mouth  was  on  the  cherry,  and  his  eyes  in  the  black 
eyes  of  the  girl  in  pink. 
<  Betty  banged  the  door.  .. 

"Come  away !"  she  said  to  Miss  Desmond.  And  she, 
who  had  seen,  too,  the  pink  picture,  came  away,  hold- 
ing Betty's  arm  tight. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  as  they  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  staircase,  "I  wonder  he  didn't  come  after  us  to — 
to — try  to  explain." 

"I  locked  the  door,"  said  Betty.  "Don't  speak  to  me. 
please." 

They  were  in  the  train  before  either  broke   silence. 


•J^f- 


"On  the  further  arm  of  the  chair  sat,  laughing  also,  a 
very  pretty  voung  woman"" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         347 

Betty's  face  was  white  and  she  looked  old — thirty  al- 
most her  aunt  thought. 

It  was  Miss  Desmond  who  spoke. 

"Betty,"  she  said,  "I  know  how  you  feel.  But  you're 
very  young.  I  think  I  ought  to  say  that  that  girl — " 

"Don't!"  said  Betty. 

"I  mean  what  we  saw  doesn't  necessarily  mean  that 
he  doesn't  love  you." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Betty,  fierce  as  a  white  flame. 
"Anyhow,  it  means  that  I  don't  love  him." 

Miss  Desmond's  tact,  worn  by  three  days  of  anxiety 
and  agitation,  broke  suddenly,  and  she  said  what  she 
regretted  for  some  months : 

"Oh,  you  don't  love  him  now  ?  Well,  the  other  man 
will  console  you." 

"I  hate  you,"  said  Betty,  "and  I  hate  him;  and  I 
hope  I  shall  never  see  a  man  again  as  long  as  I  live!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
So—" 


The  banging  of  his  door,  the  locking  of  it,  annoyed 
Vernon,  yet  interested  him  but  little.  One's  acquaint- 
ances have  such  queer  notions  of  humour.  He  had  the 
excuse  —  and  by  good  luck  the  rope  —  to  explore  his 
celebrated  roofs.  Mimi  was  more  agitated  than  he,  so 
he  dismissed  her  for  the  day  with  many  compliments 
and  a  bunch  of  roses,  and  spent  what  was  left  of  the 
light  in  paiting  in  a  background  to  the  sketch  of  Betty 
—  the  warren  as  his  sketch-book  helped  him  to  remem- 
ber it.  Perhaps  he  and  she  would  go  there  together 
some  day. 

He  looked  with  extreme  content  at  the  picture  on  the 
easel. 

He  had  worked  quickly  and  well,  The  thing  was 
coming  splendidly.  Mimi  had  been  right.  She  could 
pose  herself  as  no  artist  had  ever  posed  her.  He  would 
make  a  picture  of  the  thing  after  all. 

The  next  morning  brought  him  a  letter.  That  he, 
who  had  hated  letters,  should  have  come  to  care  for 
a  letter  more  than  for  anything  that  could  have  come 
to  him  except  a  girl,  He  kissed  the  letter  before  he 
opened  it. 

"At  last/'  he  said.  "OH,  this  minute  was  worth  wait- 
ing for!" 

He  opened  the  envelope  with  a  smile  mingled  of  tri- 
umph and  something  better  than  triumph  —  and  read: 

348 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         349 

expect  any  other  answer  tfian  the  one  I  must  give. 
"Dear  Mr.  Vernon: 

"I  hope  that  nothing  in  my  manner  has  led  you  to 
That  answer  is,  of  course,  no.  Although  thanking  you 
sincerely  for  your  flattering  offer,  I  am  obliged  to  say 
that  I  have  never  thought  of  you  except  as  a  friend.  I 
was  extremely  surprised  by  your  letter.  I  hope  I  have 
not  been  in  any  way  to  blame.  With  every  wish  for 
your  happiness,  and  regrets  that  this  should  have  hap- 
pened, I  am  yours  faithfully, 

"ELIZABETH  DESMOND." 

He  read  the  letter,  re-read  it,  raised  his  eyebrows. 
Then  he  took  two  turns  across  the  studio,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  impatiently,  lit  a  match  and  watched  the  let- 
ter burn.  As  the  last  yellow  moving  sparks  died  in  the 
black  of  its  ash,  he  bit  his  lip. 

"Damn,"  he  said,  "oh,  damn!" 

Next  day  he  went  to  Spain.  A  bunch  of  roses  big- 
ger and  redder  than  any  roses  he  had  ever  sent  her 
came  to  Lady  St.  Craye  with  his  card — p.  d.  a.  in  the 
corner. 

She,  too,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  bit  her  lip  and — 
arranged  the  roses  in  water.  Presently  she  tried  to 
take  up  her  life  at  the  point  where  she  had  laid  it  down 
when,  last  October,  Vernon  had  taken  it  into  his  hands. 
Succeeding  as  one  does  succeed  in  such  enterprises. 

It  was  May  again  when  Vernon  found  himself  once 
more  sitting  at  one  of  the  little  tables  in  front  of  the 
Cafe  de  la  Paix. 

"Sit  here  long  enough,"  he  said,  "and  you  see  every 
one  you  have  ever  known  or  ever  wanted  to  know.  Last 
year  it  was  the  jasmine  lady — and  that  girl — on  the 


350         THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

same  one  and  wonderful  day.  This  year  it's — by 
Jove!" 

He  rose  and  moved  among  the  closely  set  chairs  and 
tables  to  the  pavement.  The  sightless  stare  of  light- 
blanched  spectacles  met  his  eyes.  A  gentlemanly-look- 
ing lady  in  short  skirts  stood  awaiting  him. 

"How  are  you?"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  know  you  didn't 
see  me,  but  I  thought  you'd  like  to." 

"I  do  like  to,  indeed.  May  I  walk  with  you — or — -" 
he  glanced  back  at  the  table  where  his  Vermouth  stood 
untasted. 

"The  impertinence  of  it!  Frightfully  improper  to 
sit  outside  cafes,  isn't  it? — for  women,  I  mean — and 
this  Cafe  in  particular.  Yes,  I'll  join  you  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  Coffee  please." 

"It's  ages  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said  amiably,  "not 
since — " 

"Since  I  called  on  you  at  your  hotel.  How  fright- 
ened you  were!" 

"Not  for  long,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her  with 
the  eyes  she  loved,  the  eyes  of  someone  who  was  not 
Vernon — "Ah,  me,  a  lot  of  water  has  run — " 

"Not  under  the  bridges,"  she  pleaded :  "say  off  the 
umbrellas." 

"Since,"  he  pursued,  "we  had  that  good  talk.  You 
remember,  I  wanted  to  call  on  you  in  London  and  you 
wouldn't  let  me.  You  might  let  me  now." 

"I  will,"  she  said.  "97  Curzon  Street.  Your  eyes 
haven't  changed  colour  a  bit.  Nor  your  nature,  I  sup- 
pose. Yet  something  about  you's  changed.  Got  over 
Betty  yet?" 

"Quite,  thanks,"  he  said  tranquilly.  "But  last  time 
we  met,  you  remember  we  agreed  that  I  had  no  inten- 
tions." 


"  The  next  morning  brought 
him  a  IcttiT  " 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST         351 

"Wrong  lead,"  she  said,  smiling  frankly  at  him ; 
"and  besides  I  hold  all  the  trumps.  Ace,  King,  Queen ; 
and  Ace,  Knave  and  Queen  of  another  suit." 

"Expound,  I  implore." 

"Aces  equal  general  definite  and  decisive  informa- 
tion. King  and  Queen  of  hearts  equal  Betty  and  the 
other  man." 

"There  was  another  man  then  ?" 

"There  always  is,  isn't  there?  Knave — your  hon- 
oured self.  Queen — where  is  the  Queen,  by  the  way, 
— the  beautiful  Queen  with  the  sad  eyes,  blind,  poor 
dear,  quite  blind  to  everything  but  the  abominable 
Knave?" 

"Meaning  me?" 

"It's  not  an  unbecoming  cap,"  she  said,  stirring  her 
coffee,  "and  you  wear  it  with  an  air.  Where's  the 
Queen  of  your  suit  ?" 

"I  confess  I'm  at  fault." 

"The  odd  trick  is  mine.  And  the  honours.  You 
may  as  well  throw  down  your  hand.  Yes.  I  play 
whist.  Not  bridge.  Where  is  your  Queen — Lady  St. 
— what  is  it?" 

"I  haven't  seen  her,"  he  said  steadily,  "since  last 
June.  I  left  Paris  on  a  sudden  impulse,  and  I  hadn't 
time  to  say  good-bye  to  her." 

"Didn't  you  even  leave  a  card  ?  That's  not  like  your 
eyes." 

"I  think  I  sent  a  tub  of  hydrangeas  or  something, 
'pour  dire  adieu/' 

"That  was  definite.    Remember  the  date?" 

"No,"  he  said,  remembering  perfectly. 

"Not  the  eleventh,  was  it  ?  That  was  the  day  when 
you  would  get  Betty's  letter  of  rejection." 

"It  may  have  been  the  eleventh. — In  fact  it  was." 


352  THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"Ah,  that's  better !  And  the  tenth — who  let  you  out 
of  your  studio  on  the  tenth  ?  I've  often  wondered/' 

"I've  often  wondered  who  locked  me  in.  It  couldn't 
have  been  you,  of  course?" 

"As  you  say.    But  I  was  there." 

"It  wasn't—?" 

"But  it  was.  I  thought  you'd  guess  that.  She  got 
your  letter  and  came  up  ready  to  fall  into  your  arms — 
opened  the  door  softly  like  any  heroine  of  fiction — I 
told  her  to  knock — but  no :  beheld  the  pink  silk  picture 
and  fled  the  happy  shore  forever." 

"Damn!"  he  said.  "I  do  beg  your  pardon,  but 
really—" 

"Don't  waste  those  really  convincing  damns  on 
ancient  history.  I  told  her  it  didn't  mean  that  you 
didn't  love  her." 

"That  was  clear-sighted  of  you." 

"It  was  also  quite  futile.  She  said  it  means  she 
didn't  love  you  at  any  rate.  I  suppose  she  wrote  and 
told  you  so." 

A  long  pause.     Then: 

"As  you  say,"  said  Vernon,  "it's  ancient  history. 
But  you  said  something  about  another  man." 

"Oh,  yes — your  friend  Temple. — Say  'damn'  again 
if  it's  the  slightest  comfort  to  you — I've  heard  worse 
words." 

"When?"  asked  Vernon,  and  he  sipped  his  Ver- 
mouth; "not  straight  away?" 

"Bless  me,  no!  Months  and  months.  That  pic- 
ture in  your  studio  gave  her  the  distaste  for  all  men 
for  quite  a  long  time.  We  took  her  home,  her  father 
and  me :  by  the  way,  he  and  she  are  tremendous  chums 
now." 

"Well?" 


353 

"You  don't  want  me  to  tell  you  the  sweet  secret  tale 
of  their  betrothal?  He  just  came  down — at  Christmas 
it  was.  She  was  decorating  the  church.  Her  father 
had  a  transient  gleam  of  common  sense  and  sent  him 
down  to  her.  'Is  it  you?'  'Is  it  you?' — All  was  over! 
They  returned  to  that  Rectory  an  engaged  couple. 
They  were  made  for  each  other. — Same  tastes,  same 
sentiments.  They  love  the  same  things — gardens 
scenery,  the  simple  life,  lofty  ideals,  cathedrals  and 
Walt  Whitman." 

"And  when  are  they  to  be  married?" 

"They  are  married.  'What  are  we  waiting  for,  you 
and  I  ?'  No,  I  don't  know  which  of  them  said  it.  They 
were  married  at  Easter :  Sunday-school  children  throw- 
ing cowslips — quite  idyllic.  All  the  old  ladies  from 
the  Mother's  Mutual  Twaddle  Club  came  and  shed  fat 
tears.  They  presented  a  tea-set;  maroon  with  blue 
roses — most  'igh  class  and  select." 

"Easter?"  said  Vernon,  refusing  interest  to  the  ma- 
roon and  blue  tea-cups.  "She  must  indeed  have  been 
extravagantly  fond  of  me." 

"Not  she!  She  wanted  to  be  in  love.  We  all  do, 
you  know.  And  you  were  the  first.  But  she'd  never 
have  suited  you.  I've  never  known  but  two  women 
who  would." 

"Two?"  he  said.    "Which?" 

"Myself  for  one,  saving  your  presence."  She  laughed 
and  finished  her  coffee.  "If  I'd  happened  to  meet  you 
when  I  was  young — and  not  bad-looking.  It's  only  my 
age  that  keeps  you  from  falling  in  love  with  me.  The 
other  one's  the  Queen  of  your  suit,  poor  lady,  that  you 
sent  the  haystack  of  sunflowers  to.  Well — Good-bye. 
Come  and  see  me  when  you're  in  town — 97  Curzon 
Street;  don't  forget." 


354        THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

"I  shan't  forget,"  he  said;  "and  if  I  thought  you 

would  condescend  to  look  at  me,  it  isn't  what  you  call 

your  age  that  would  keep  me  from  falling  in  love  with 

you." 

"Heaven  defend  me!"  she  cried.    "Au  revoir." 

When  Vernon  had  finished  his  Vermouth,  he  strolled 
along  to  the  street  where  last  year  Lady  St.  Craye  had 
had  a  flat. 

Yes — Madame  retained  still  the  apartment.  It  was 
to-day  that  Madame  received.  But  the  last  of  the 
friends  of  Madame  had  departed.  Monsieur  would 
find  Madame  alone. 

Monsieur  found  Madame  alone,  and  reading.  She 
laid  the  book  face  downwards  on  the  table  and  held  out 
the  hand  he  had  always  loved — slender,  and  loosely 
made,  that  one  felt  one  could  so  easily  crush  in  one's 
own. 

"How  time  flies,"  she  said.  "It  seems  only  yesterday 
that  you  were  here.  How  sweet  you  were  to  me  when 
I  had  influenza.  How  are  you?  You  look  very  tired." 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  in  Spain.  And 
in  Italy.  And  in  Algiers." 

"Very  fatiguing  countries,  I  understand.  And  what 
is  your  best  news?" 

He  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  looking  down  at  her. 

"Betty  Desmond's  married,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "to  that  nice  boy  Temple,  too. 
I  saw  it  in  the  paper.  Dreadful  isn't  it  ?  Here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow !" 

"I'll  tell  you  why  she  married  him,"  said  Vernon, 
letting  himself  down  into  a  chair,  "if  you'd  like  me  to. 
At  least  I'll  tell  you  why  she  didn't  marry  me.  But  per- 
haps the  subject  has  ceased  to  interest  you?" 


THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST        355 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered  with  extreme  politeness. 

So  he  told  her. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  like  that.  It  must  have 
annoyed  you  very  much.  It's  left  marks  on  your  face, 
Eustace.  You  look  tired  to  death." 

"That  sort  of  thing  does  leave  marks." 

"That  girl  taught  you  something,  Eustace;  some- 
thing  that's  stuck." 

"It  is  not  impossible,  I  suppose,"  he  said  and  then 
very  carelessly,  as  one  leading  the  talk  to  lighter  things, 
he  added:  "I  suppose  you  wouldn't  care  to  marry 
me?" 

"Candidly,"  she  answered,  calling  all  her  powers  of 
deception  to  her  aid,  "candidly,  I  don't  think  I  should." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Vernon,  smiling;  "my  heart  told 
me  so." 

"She,"  said  Lady  St.  Craye,  "was  frightened  away 
from  her  life's  happiness,  as  they  call  it,  by  seeing  you 
rather  near  to  a  pink  silk  model.  I  suppose  you  think 
/  shouldn't  mind  such  things?" 

"You  forget,"  said  Vernon  demurely.  "Such  things 
never  happen  after  one  is  married." 

"No,"  she  said,  "of  course  they  don't.  I  forgot 
that." 

"You  might  as  well  marry  me,"  he  said,  and  the  look 
of  youth  had  come  back  suddenly,  as  it's  way  was,  to 
his  face. 

"I  might  very  much  better  not." 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily.  She  saw  in  his 
eyes  a  little  of  what  it  was  that  Betty  had  taught  him. 

She  never  knew  what  he  saw  in  hers,  for  all  in  a 
moment  he  was  kneeling  beside  her;  his  arm  was  across 
the  back  of  her  chair,  his  head  was  on  her  shoulder  and 
his  face  was  laid  against  her  neck,  as  the  face  of  a 


356          THE  INCOMPLETE  AMORIST 

child,  tired  with  a  long  play-day,  is  laid  against  the 

neck  of  its  mother. 

"Ah,  be  nice  to  me!"  he  said.    "I  am  very  tired." 
Her  arm  went  round  his  shoulders  as  the  mother's 

arm  goes  round  the  shoulders  of  the  child. 


END. 


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